Together
by fanspired
Summary: Tensions mount between Sam Campbell and Dean Winchester until an explosive quarrel drives the friends apart. Sam is drawn to a pretty stranger while Dean confronts a sinister scarecrow. You think you know this story. Think again. SLASH ROMANCE SUB-PLOT
1. Notes, Acknowledgements and Disclaimers

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is episode 4 in the series "The Song Remains the Same", a serialized story written in the episodic style of the original show. It can be read as a stand alone story, and a summary of the story so far will be given at the beginning of this episode. For the full story to date, please read the pilot episode "I Can Never Go Home", episode 2 "Golem" and episode 3 "Prank'd". (Remember, if you have favourited me as an author, you still need to story alert this episode to receive alerts from the site when it has been updated).

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS AND DISCLAIMERS: I should like to offer my grateful thanks to my most loyal supporter for becoming my beta-reader and, as always, I offer my apologies to the writers and creators of Supernatural for my use and abuse of their original material. Allusions to other fandoms will be acknowledged when the closing chapter is posted.


	2. Prologue and Scene 1

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

Hi everyone. I apologize for the length of time it's taken me to post this update. It's been quite a challenge to write. If you have already read the prologue, I would ask that you read it again as I posted it prematurely and these first two scenes really need to be read consecutively to be fully appreciated. Also, please read "The Road So Far" as it contains important reminders that are relevant to this episode. Many thanks.

**WARNING: Scene 1 contains a brief consent issue.**

* * *

**PROLOGUE:**

**THE ROAD SO FAR:**

___After leading a hunting raid that results in the death of his cousin, Sam Campbell is estranged from his hunter family and tries to escape the life. He attempts to start afresh in a new town and is employed as a mechanic by John Winchester, but a death vision of John's wife and son under horribly familiar circumstances draws him back into the world of the supernatural. When the yellow eyed demon possesses John and murders Amanda, Sam carries their son Dean from their burning home. Now Dean has abandoned his old life as a college student and would be musician, and Sam is teaching him about hunting as they pursue their quest to find and rescue John, and avenge the deaths of their mothers. Tensions have been mounting as the friends struggle with their personal fears and self doubts, and as they adjust to each other's idiosyncrasies. Sam has been concealing secrets about his past and about his psychic abilities. Dean has recently discovered that Sam is attracted to him and is beginning to examine his own feelings_

**NOW**

_In the heartland_

It was the slowest day of the year: not a customer all afternoon until four o'clock when a tall, swarthy, solidly built man walked into the empty bar and rolled up to the counter. Unloading a duffel bag from his shoulders and resting it on the stool beside him he locked the bar-keeper with dark, intense eyes and a broad smile.

"Give me a shot of Jack, friend," he said. "And take one yourself. I'm celebrating."

"Thank you, sir, and congratulations," the barman replied as he poured the drinks. "May I ask what the occasion is?"

The man picked up his shot and knocked it back whole, setting the empty glass back on the bar with a satisfied sigh. "Do you have children?" he asked.

"Two sons and a daughter," the barman acknowledged.

"Good. Then you'll know how it is – how you bring them into the world, you raise them, try to protect them and guide them . . . then a day comes when you can see the progress they've made, and you see them taking their first steps toward their destiny, and if you know you've had a hand in that, you'll know what a proud moment it is for a father."

The barman nodded his understanding. "Sure is," he agreed.

The dark man pushed his glass across the bar. "Hit me again," he said, and the barman refilled the glass. "Do you believe in destiny?" he asked.

"Can't say I've thought about it, sir."

"Oh, I'm a great believer. I believe life is like a story – like the great stories that are told over and over again, and everyone tells them a different way, but some parts are fixed. The hero always meets the temptress; partnerships are always tested; the big choices are made. That's destiny. The story's always the same. It's just the how and the why that changes." He leaned forward and grinned, and suddenly his eyes glowed yellow. "The Devil's in the detail."

The barman gasped and stumbled backwards but the man's hand shot out and grabbed him by the collar, dragging him across the bar and pressing their faces close together.

"Not so fast, friend. I have to make a call to my daughter."

"There – there's a p – payphone next to the – "

The thing with the yellow eyes raised its other hand and the barman saw the glint of the knife there before it sliced cold across his throat.

"It's not that kind of call." The demon lifted the chalice from his duffel bag and held it under the barman's head as he bled out.

Azazel grinned. "I can feel you in there, John, scratching, fighting. Gotta say I'm impressed. Most people would have given up by now, but not you. You never stop. You never give in. You just gotta keep fighting the good fight. That's what I like about you, John." The demon stirred a finger in the hot, crimson fluid. "It's in your blood."

* * *

**SCENE 1:**

_Indiana, 2nd week in April_

Dean lifted the towel from his arm and grimaced at the red stain soaking the fabric. The bleeding looked like it was starting to slow. "I had it covered," he growled.

"Dean, it stabbed you with _your own knife_," Sam observed with his characteristic flare for redundancy. Dean knew that. He was _there._

"It's just a scratch," Dean insisted. "I'm not made of friggin' glass, Sam. You were so busy worrying about me, one of them nearly got away."

"Well. It didn't."

No, it didn't. Because, after beheading Ma Ghoul, _Superman_ had flown two quick circuits of the world before running down and dispatching fleeing Pa, pausing en route to rescue Dean from the clutches of Ghoul Jr. (whom Dean had totally been about to decapitate, bloody arm notwithstanding.)

"You gotta let me fight my own battles, Sam. I'm supposed to be learning, preparing to fight the demon."

"That doesn't mean running in half cocked like you've got a death wish. Are you trying to get yourself killed? What are you trying to prove?"

There was a pause. That was a question Dean didn't want to examine too closely. "What was I supposed to do? Run?" he demanded.

Sam shot him an exasperated glance. "That is an option sometimes, Dean. Sometimes it's the best option."

"It's all we ever do," Dean growled.

"What?" Sam full on stared at Dean and the car rocked as one wheel swerved off the road and into the dirt.

"Road!" Dean barked.

Sam hurriedly steered back on course and mumbled an apology then there was silence for a while. Dean examined his wound again and Sam glanced worriedly at him. "Keep the pressure on that," he snapped.

_Friggin' mother hen_. "I'm fine, Sam. Watch the friggin' road!"

"It's deep, Dean. It needs stitches."

"Fine, so find the nearest hospital and we'll have them hem me up."

The silence that greeted the comment was ominous. _Oh, crap._

"_Sam?_" Dean prompted.

"I'm looking for a motel."

"You're gonna do it yourself?"

"I know what I'm doing, Dean."

"Why can't we just go to the ER like regular people?"

"We're not regular people."

Dean scowled and grunted. Again with the redundancy.

"Hospitals ask questions, Dean. It's best to avoid them where possible."

Dean grunted a grudging acknowledgement and directed his gaze out of the window, into the darkness. It was a slippery word, "we". Sometimes Sam used it to mean the two of them: the dynamic duo, Batman and Robin. Other times he used it to mean hunters in general. On a good day Dean might kid himself he fell into both categories, but it seemed like every time he was in peril he got relegated to the status of protected charge. Didn't the field hours he'd put in count for anything? How many monsters had to burn, stab, sling, squeeze, and claw him before he qualified as one of the ranks instead of just a victim? Not like he was asking to be a general here, just a foot soldier would do.

"Tell me, Sam, would you still be running from the demon if you didn't have me in tow?"

"What?"

"Are you really afraid of it? Or are you just afraid for me?"

"Dean, we don't know where the demon _is_ and, even if we did, we don't know how to fight it. We just don't have enough information."

"And we're not getting any new information! After all this time, Sam, I gotta wonder, how hard are we trying?"

"All right, look, I know how you feel, Dean – "

"_Do you_?"

Sam turned and stared. He seemed upset by Dean's tone but Dean continued to press home his point.

"You don't remember your mother. You never knew your father. It's been _six months_ since my mom died, and the demon's got Dad and he's doing who knows what with him. How the _hell_ would you know how I feel?"

When Sam didn't have an answer Dean directed his gaze to the road ahead. His attention wasn't really focused until he realized there was a sharp bend coming and Sam wasn't turning.

"Mind the bend, Sam . . . _Sam! BEND!_"

As the car careened off the road Dean instinctively grabbed the wheel. Then they were both fighting for control, which wasn't helping at all, but just as a crash seemed inevitable Sam let go of the wheel and let Dean steer them back onto the road. Once they were back on the straight he put his hands back on the wheel but didn't attempt to steer at first.

"I've got it, Dean," he breathed. Then, again, when Dean still didn't let go, "Dean, I've got it."

"O.K." Dean released the wheel and leaned back. His arm was throbbing and when he checked he found it was oozing blood again. Sam glanced at him as he retrieved the towel and pressed it against the wound.

"Are you O.K?" he demanded.

"Never mind me, I'm fine," Dean growled. "Just concentrate on getting us where we're supposed to be going."

* * *

As they entered the motel room Dean paused by the ornamental partition.

"Oh, look! We got birdies this week," he remarked scathingly.

"What?" Sam dropped his backpack on the bed and pulled out his medical pack then he went round the room turning on all the lights to give himself as much light to work by as possible.

"Last week it was stars," Dean elaborated. "The week before that it was squares and circles."

"Really." Sam filled the kettle and started it boiling while he unrolled the suture kit.

"Do you ever get the feeling it's the same motel every time, and they're just changing the drapes, the bedspreads and . . . and _this_?" Dean gave the partition an irritable smack.

Sam leaned against the kitchenette for a few moments, trying to steady himself. The fight, Dean getting hurt, the argument, the near accident, were all still throbbing in his veins. He kept waiting for the adrenalin spike to level out, but it wasn't happening. And Dean wasn't helping. Sam knew it wasn't rational to be angry with him. Dean was keyed up, too, and he was wounded; he was bound to be upset and out of temper.

Sam wasn't feeling very rational at the moment.

Behind him he heard a click and then the radio came on, too loud as usual, and some excessively cheery pop number invaded the space, kept going on about having fun on some boulevard or something. Sam had mixed feelings about it; it grated against his nerves, but it also obliterated his thoughts, so there was a trade off. And if there was a chance it would improve Dean's mood it was worth it. Dean could be aggravating enough when he was in a good mood, but when he was depressed he was . . . well, it was just kind of unbearable.

Dean leaned against the counter hugging the bottle of Jack Daniels they'd picked up at the liquor mart and trying to break the seal.

"So this is what I have to do to get you to buy some booze without bitching, is it? Hey!"

Sam pulled the bottle out of Dean's hand. "It's for after, Dean. I need you to pay attention while I'm doing this. You may have to do it for me some time."

For a moment Dean's face took on that wide eyed, little boy lost expression before it was hurriedly replaced with the stock grin. "Nah. Not gonna happen. Haven't you noticed? I'm the monster magnet around here. Like a walking lightning rod." All the same he watched as Sam sterilized the needles and tweezers.

Trouble was it was kind of true; somehow it was always Dean who seemed to bear the brunt of the physical attacks. He was the one who kept getting hurt. True, part of that was his own fault . . .

"If you stayed back when I tell you to – "

Dean made a rude noise and rolled his eyes. "Don't start again, Sam. I told you, I can take care of myself."

Did Dean ever notice his own contradictions? Sam wondered. He was like Gwen that way: so eager to prove he wasn't afraid, that he could hold his own, he was liable to get himself . . . Didn't he understand? _Everyone's_ afraid.

Dean's recklessness was only half the story, though. The other half . . . well, you could call it bad luck that always seemed to place Dean in the wrong place at the wrong time . . . but Sam couldn't bring himself to accept that. It was the easy option to blame chance, or blame fate, or even to blame Dean himself. It was always easier to turn the anger outward than it was to direct it where it truly belonged.

"Get your shirt off, Dean," Sam snapped, then regretted it the moment he said it. There had to have been a better way to phrase that.

Dean raised his eyebrows and his lips twisted into a lazy grin that Sam wanted to smack off of his face. "I love it when you get all masterful like that, Sam."

Sam tried not to look as Dean eased himself out of the shirt. He knew Dean wouldn't miss the opportunity to make a show out of it. After Texas all the smart talk had stopped for a while, and Sam had started to think Dean was actually going to let the matter drop. Then it began again, just the odd pointed remark at first, but soon it escalated until it seemed like every other sentence out of Dean's mouth was laced with innuendo.

Dean was wriggling his shoulders, flexing his muscles and generally trying to be as provocative as possible, in spite of his injury. Sam tried not to notice, or pretended he didn't, but he couldn't help it. And he knew Dean _knew_ he couldn't help it. And he couldn't stop the heat growing in his cheeks either, which just made it worse.

Sam's greatest fear when Dean had first found out about his feelings was that it would make Dean awkward and uncomfortable around him. He should have known better. Instead it appeared that Dean enjoyed having the power to make _Sam_ as uncomfortable and embarrassed as he possibly could.

As Dean finally finished peeling off his shirt Sam drew a chair next to the sink. Dean took the hint and sat on it, still grinning. He leaned back and allowed his knees to fall open, displaying himself invitingly. "Still, silver lining, eh, Sam? You like doing the whole 'nursing me back to health' thing, don't you?" and he punctuated the comment with a wink.

"Stop being a jerk, Dean," Sam breathed, trying to keep his voice even. He wasn't supposed to get mad, he got that now. There wasn't any malice behind Dean's jibes; he was just teasing Sam, that's all. Still, Sam had to wonder how Dean would like it if a woman teased _him_ that way.

Dean nudged Sam's leg with his knee. "Ah, come on, Sammy, smile," he cooed. "Up side: there are three less ghouls walking the earth tonight, and we're still here. That's something to celebrate, isn't it?"

Sam tried to find a smile of response. He still wasn't used to the way the barometer of Dean's moods could swing so quickly. His own ill humors took longer to evaporate.

Sam poured antiseptic onto the cotton wadding, lifted Dean's arm and started to clean the wound. Dean hissed, yelled "YOW!" then, out of nowhere, he snapped a punch into Sam's side that was so hard it felt like he'd damn near ruptured something. Sam doubled over and just barely restrained himself from retaliating by about a hair's breath. It was probably only the fact that Dean looked just as surprised as he did that held him back.

"What the fuck, Dean?"

"Sorry, Sam. Are you O.K?"

Sam glared and straightened up slowly.

"It stung," Dean said weakly, by way of explanation.

"It's antiseptic. Of course it's gonna sting," Sam responded, still struggling to hold his temper in check. It wasn't the first time he'd been on the receiving end of Dean's impulse to lash out when he was hurt, regardless of whether it was justified or not. Back in Castor's Passage Dean had damn near broken Sam's toe. The punch he'd thrown later . . . well, that'd had some justification. "Just fucking keep your hands to yourself, Dean," Sam hissed. "I'm trying to help you here."

"Right." Dean shrugged awkwardly and pointedly wrapped his free hand round the seat of the chair. "Sorry," he repeated. Then after a moment he offered a tentative grin and added "guess that means I've stopped telegraphing my punches, though, right?"

Sam had to smile a little at that. "I guess so," he agreed, and allowed Dean his moment of self satisfaction.

When he'd finished cleaning the wound Sam threaded a needle, then he opened a small bottle and handed it to Dean.

"What's this?" Dean asked then winced as he sniffed at the contents and his eyes started watering. "Smelling salts? Are you kidding me?"

"Like I said, you need to be focused while I'm doing this. I need you to watch what I'm doing."

Dean tried to push the bottle back at Sam. "I'll be fine," he insisted. "I crossed the Rubicon after that red paint job in Texas. I'm over it now."

That might have been true, and if it was Sam supposed it was a good thing, but he had mixed feelings about it. It felt like the start of something he'd wanted to protect Dean from. He ignored the proffered bottle. "Just in case," he said.

"I'm _fine,_" Dean growled, but he kept the bottle.

Sam knelt down between Dean's thighs and as he pinched the sides of the wound together Dean growled again and muttered "_son of a bitch_" under his breath.

Sam drew in a slow, deep breath before he started the procedure. For a moment he wondered if he was going to need the salts himself. He was suddenly too aware of his proximity to Dean and he felt momentarily overwhelmed by the strange energy he imagined he felt whenever they got too close to each other. He knew that the aura of light he saw around Dean was kind of in his imagination, too; a chemically induced illusion he'd read about some place. It was ironic, though, considering how he was telling Dean _he _had to stay focused. Sam took another breath and prepared to take his own advice, ignoring the inappropriate stirrings of the beast below.

Dean watched with gritted teeth as Sam carefully picked up the flesh either side of the wound with the needle. Would he really wind up having to sew up Sam one of these days? Hell, he didn't want to have to do that. But he could see the edge of a scar on Sam's shoulder that demonstrated that, Dean's assertions to the contrary, Sam wasn't invulnerable to injury. He scratched his nose. Because it was itching. Not because he needed the smelling salts. The bottle just happened to be in the same hand is all.

To give Sam his due he _did_ know what he was doing. He executed the first couple of stitches slowly and carefully so Dean could see his method, but then he picked up his rhythm. He was neat and he was quick (which, good), evidence of how practiced he was in the task . . . and Dean wondered if Sam had ever had a day of fun in his whole life . . .

Dean had heard that song a thousand times if he'd heard it once, but this time it was really speaking to him. What was the average life expectancy of a hunter, he wondered? His attention wandered from Sam's hands to his face. He looked young tonight. Since Sam had begun growing his hair it had started to soften his features. It was still short but it was thickening, and he was beginning to get a bit of a fringe. It gave him a boyish look, and seemed to make his beauty spot and his cupid's bow lips more pronounced. Mind you, Dean could kind of see now why Sam had preferred to keep it short. It tended to be a little wild and unruly, and rebel tufts and curls stuck out at odd angles. Dean thought it was cute, but he knew how Sam was about anything he couldn't control.

"You've got some little kiss curls growing there, Sammy," Dean remarked, and he reached out and toyed with the ringlets at the back of Sam's neck.

"Quit it, Dean!" Sam snapped, smacking Dean's hand away, with more than necessary force in Dean's opinion but maybe he was still mad about that punch.(Hell, Dean was surprised it had landed, let alone done any damage).

Sam tied off and cut the suture, and dabbed off the remaining blood, then he started on bandaging.

It had been a fuck of a long time since Dean had last had any fun. For a long time after Mom died and Dad . . . well, he just hadn't felt like it. And now . . . well, the fun parts of his body seemed to be working again, but there wasn't a lot of free time, and the lifestyle didn't lend itself to making new relationships. Sure Dean knew he could pick up one night stands whenever he wanted to, but tomcatting around didn't have the appeal it had when he was younger, before he met Penny . . . Not that he was about to choose celibacy as an option if that was the only alternative . . . but maybe it wasn't.

O.K. so Dean was a bit surprised . . . _really_ surprised to find himself thinking about this, but now that he _was_ thinking about it . . . quite a lot, lately, actually . . . you know what? It didn't suck. 'Cause Sam really was kind of beautiful. His skin kind of glowed with it. He had those sparkling hazel eyes going for him, with the feather soft lashes and, _man_, that body! Sam was this weird mix of something delicate and almost fragile, and yet hard and lethal at the same time. It was weird because, what Dean had always enjoyed about women was the softness and the curves but, yeah, he was curious to find out what that firm muscled flesh would feel like under his hands. And that wasn't all he was curious about. He really wanted to know what it would be like to see Sam let go. Lately Dean's morning shower routine had included visions of Sam quivering under his touch, writhing, whimpering, gasping. Dean grinned. Oh, yeah. He was pretty sure he could show Sam the meaning of _fun _given half a chance. And since they had to spend all this time together in cheap motels anyway, they might as well make it work for them. _Come on. Friends with benefits, Dude!_

But Sam was so fricking hard to read. There was something there, Dean was sure. Pretty sure, anyway. Since Texas he'd been watching for it, and he'd caught Sam checking him out a couple of times. Well, looking at him, anyway. Not quite the full on "get in the back seat now" look from before but, still, something. But when Dean flirted with him all Sam did was blush like a schoolgirl and get irritable. Not exactly the green light Dean was looking for. That was all Dean needed: just one green light, and he'd take it from there. No problem.

Sam looked up, caught Dean watching him and frowned. "What?" he demanded.

"Just admiring your handiwork, Sam. Are you always as good with your hands?" _C'mon, Sam. Green light. Green light. Green light._

_Crap. Bitchface._

Maybe Sam just wasn't getting it, but just how fucking obvious did Dean need to be?

Sam tied off the bandage and stood up. "We're done here," he announced.

_Crap._ Maybe Dean was just getting it all wrong, somehow.

Sam found a tumbler in a cupboard, splashed some whiskey into it and handed it to Dean, then he was hunting through his Dr Quinn pack again and he pulled out a small ominous looking bottle.

"Thought you said we were done," Dean complained, eyeing the bottle uneasily.

"Painkiller," Sam explained, proffering the bottle toward Dean's glass.

"What's wrong with ibuprofen?"

"You want the brand product or the one that works?"

Dean shrugged and held out his glass. He might give Sam crap about his home remedies but, truth is, they were usually effective. He let Sam tip a couple of drops into the glass then downed the contents. Warm glow from the Jack Daniels as it burned through his tubes: great. Herby aftertaste: nasty. He held out his glass for a refill.

"Now give me one you haven't douched up. And why don't you join me? You could stand to relax once in a while, Sam." _You could stand to let me help you with that._

Sam gazed ruminatively at the bottle. "Are we going out to eat? Or ordering in?"

"Oh, order in. I'm pooped, aren't you?"

Sam nodded, shrugged and got out another tumbler, poured himself a generous measure. _Good. Right direction._ Not that Dean wanted Sam drunk, but a little less tightly wound couldn't hurt.

Dean stood up and made for the bathroom. "You wanna order a pizza while I get cleaned up, Sam?"

"Do you wanna look at the menu?"

"Nah, just order my usual."

Sam clicked his tongue. "You ever think your diet might benefit from more variety, Dean?"

Well, Dean couldn't let _that_ pass. "Oh, I might surprise you some time, Sam," he replied with a wink.

A slow frown settled on Sam's face. Not so much irritated this time, more puzzled. Maybe _now_ he was starting to get it. Dean grinned and ducked into the bathroom.

The bandage made showering awkward so he just stripped down to his boxers and had a quick wash up then rinsed his hair under the shower. It put a crimp in his mood when he picked up his hair mousse and it farted into his hand.

"Crap," he muttered, letting out a deep sigh and pinching the bridge of his nose. If Sam thought buying brand shampoo was an unwarranted luxury, he was likely to be even less sympathetic to Dean's styling mousse needs. Still, Dean finished off drying and styling his hair with the little he could coax out of the end of the bottle then he opened the bathroom door and struck a pose in the doorway.

"O.K. so who do I have to sleep with around here to get some more styling mousse?" he asked, rounding off the comment with a catwalk pout.

Sam looked round but immediately looked away again, then it was back to girly blushing, but the blush was a little deeper than usual.

"Is everything about sex with you, Dean?"

He was trying to sound casual but Dean thought his voice had a suspect quaver in it. Dean sauntered a little closer to him.

"Everything's about sex period, Sam. Don't tell me with all that reading you do, you've never read Freud."

Sam cleared his throat. "I'm more of a Jungian," he replied, still not meeting Dean's gaze.

Dean laughed. Figured.

"Have you finished with the bathroom?" Sam asked then dodged round Dean and through the door without waiting for an answer.

Dean huffed, exasperated. Weren't men supposed to be easier than women? 'Cause he'd never had any trouble telling whether a woman was interested or not. Picking up his neglected tumbler he dashed off the remainder of the Jack, turned off the radio and picked up the TV remote instead. Stretching himself out on the bed he surfed the channels, various snatches of dialogue competing with the sound of the shower in the next room. A few minutes after the shower was turned off there was a knock at the door. Dean turned off the TV.

"Sam, can you get that?" he called out.

Sam appeared in the bathroom doorway looking damp and steamy and clad just in his night joggers. _Nice._

"Why can't you – " He took one look at Dean's continued state of undress, scratched at the back his neck and started looking for his wallet.

The pizza guy could still see Dean, even from the door. He glanced from Sam to Dean and smirked, clearly drawing conclusions about their attire that Dean hoped would turn out to be accurate.

As Sam turned from the door his cheeks were so pink it was adorable.

"You know, Sam, I do believe he thought we were misbehaving," Dean teased.

"Well, it's hardly surprising with you sitting around half naked," Sam retorted.

Dean stood up and planted himself between Sam and the table, leaning on the edge of it. "No, Sam, _you're_ half naked. I'm at least . . ." he pursed his lips ". . . eighty per cent naked."

Sam tried to dodge round Dean to get to the table but Dean swiveled so, once again, he was right in front of him.

"What are you doing, Dean?" Sam's voice came out hoarse.

There was a quaver of nervousness in Dean's, too, as he responded. "What do you think I'm doing, Sam?"

"I don't know . . . _I don't know_ . . . what . . .? . . ." There was an edge of something like panic in Sam's voice and he was clinging to the pizza box like it was a lifebuoy or something, and staring at the lid like he might find instructions written on it.

Dean stood up, took the box out of Sam's hands and dropped it on the table behind him. Fuck, he hoped he was right about this because, if he wasn't, he was about to get royally smacked. Or, worse, he was gonna look really, really fucking stupid.

He rested a tentative hand on Sam's hip, leaned closer and spoke softly close to his ear. "I'm trying to seduce you, Sam. Is that O.K. by you?"

Sam stumbled backwards a little but fetched up against the decorative metal birds. "D – don't, Dean . . ." he mumbled.

Oh, _fuck!_ . . . _Seriously?_

As Dean hesitated he could hear his own heart beating in his ears, and Sam's breath coming out in fast shallow rasps. Sam looked up at last and Dean watched as his pupils dilated and the irises deepened from hazel to smokey brown.

_Huh._ _Mouth says no. Eyes say yes._

Dean looked down. What was going on in Sam's joggers was saying a big yes, too . . . a _really _big . . . _Fu – uck!_

He looked up again. "You _sure_ Sam?" His voice cracked with a telltale squeak in the middle of the sentence.

When Sam didn't answer Dean risked another step forward. Sam didn't move. Dean could see he was trembling, but it was hard to say who was trembling more at that point, or who was breathing faster. Dean reached for Sam's hip again, felt Sam shudder as his fingers made contact, but he wasn't trying to get away this time. Dean drew his thumb gently across the flesh near Sam's hipbone and felt it quiver under his touch. And things were starting to stir in his own boxers now.

"'Cause, you know . . ." he breathed against Sam's ear again ". . . you could push me away if you wanted to . . ." his hand slid slowly up Sam's side, thumb working in gentle circles over the flesh as he moved. There were tiny little noises coming out with Sam's breath now, and they were making Dean so hard so fast he was kind of dizzy with it. "You're not pushing me away," he observed quietly, dropping his head and planting his lips softly against Sam's shoulder.

The sound that came out of Sam . . . well, it was hard to believe it _had_ come out of Sam's mouth: a deep, dark guttural moan, loud and filthy. And then his hands were on Dean and for a moment Dean thought he _was_ pushing him away, but then Dean felt himself being swept round, pushed back. It happened so fast he lost his balance, his feet left the floor and he landed on the bed with a _whump_, and then Sam was on top of him, and Sam's mouth crashed against his, and Sam's hands were all over him, and Sam's huge boner was pressing, grinding against his hip, and it all had about as much finesse as a road crash.

Couldn't fault the enthusiasm, Dean supposed, and it was kind of exciting, kind of a turn on, just a bit . . . Dean just couldn't believe how fast he'd lost the initiative here. Everything was moving way faster than he'd imagined it. He tried to roll Sam over, see if he could slow things down a bit, but that massive, powerful body wasn't going anywhere until Sam wanted to. Then when Sam pulled away, Dean's boxers went with him, and he shed his own joggers just as quickly. Dean's eyes widened. Things were happening way too fast, and that thing was _way_ too big and

"Sam, w – "

Sam's mouth closed over Dean's, his fingers sliced through and gripped Dean's hair, and he was on top again, between Dean's thighs and – fuck – no that – that was not good – that did _not _feel good – NO

He pushed Sam's head away. "Sam, get off! Stop! Get off now! I SAID FUCKING STOP!" He was pushing but Sam was too strong so then he punched and then he just drove his elbow into Sam's chest.

"Dean w – what the fuck? _What the fuck_? " Sam cried as Dean scrabbled away, scrambled into his boxers and started looking for his jeans. He couldn't find his clothes fast enough.

"WHAT PART OF THE WORD STOP DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?" he yelled. He had his jeans on. He was looking for his T-shirt. Sam was still naked. Sam was still – He had his T-shirt. He was looking for his jacket.

Sam looked stunned, like he didn't know what was going on or what Dean was talking about. "I d – I st – . . .Wh – . . . I don't understand, Dean. I don't understand. You came on to me. _You _came on to _me_! I thought you wanted this!"

"I might have done – " O.K. O.K, he had his clothes on now. "I might have done if you had the _first fucking clue what you were doing!"_ he shouted. "I thought you said you'd done this before!"

Sam just stared at him with that stunned mullet expression.

Dean continued to shout. "That hooker you said you went with. Or was that just a story you made up?"

"No. No!" Sam was starting to color: a hot angry flush that filled his face and started to spread down his neck and through his chest.

"Well, didn't you learn a _fucking thing_ from him?"

"I didn't get any complaints from _him,_" Sam snapped back.

"He was a HOOKER, you _asshole_! You _paid_ him not to have any complaints!" Dean started struggling into his socks and his boots. "It fucking _hurt_, you asshole! You ever hear of lubricant? You ever hear of condoms?" Dean straightened as an uneasy thought struck him. "Did you use a condom with the _hooker_?"

Sam was staring wide eyed, and then he was trying to calm down, and he was trembling from the effort it was costing him. "Yes. Yes, of course, I did. And I should . . . I would have . . . Look, Dean, I'm sorry, O.K? I didn't think, O.K? I didn't mean to – It just all happened so fast. I wasn't thinking."

"_You_ happened fast," Dean growled.

Sam snapped. "YOU FUCKING CAME ON TO ME, DEAN!" There was a brief silence and then Sam continued with slightly less decibels but his voice was shaking. "Just – just out of the blue, out of nowhere – after all these months – when I thought you didn't – you _said_ you didn't – and I'm supposed to know what – what to . . . What the _fuck,_ Dean?"

"What out of nowhere? I've been dropping hints since Texas!"

Sam blinked. Seriously. He didn't know.

"Yeah . . . well . . ." Dean picked up Sam's joggers and threw them at him. "Put some fucking clothes on," he growled.

Sam was tight jawed. His nostrils flared and his eyes glistened suspiciously, but he struggled back into his joggers.

"Well . . ." Dean passed his hand around the back of his neck. "Well, we ever do that again we use lube, we use a condom and . . . and . . ." he stabbed his finger at Sam "and _you_ can be on the fucking receiving end."

Sam's head snapped up and his eyes flashed. "Oh _really_?" His tone sliced through the room like a scimitar.

In the silence Dean could hear his own blood pumping. His breath came out in a mirthless half laugh and his fingers twitched with the urge to hit. "Right. Right, because it would never be that way round. I guess I just forgot my place in this relationship for a second there." Dean turned, started looking for his car keys. He needed to get out, get away, get some air.

"Dean, what are you talking about – Dean?"

He found the keys, headed for the door.

"Dean – what – wait – where are you going? _Dean!_"

Sam was between him and the door. "Get out of my way, Sam."

"Dean, you're not driving. Not like this."

"Get out of my way."

"Dean, just stop. Just think! You're upset, you've been drinking, you've got drugs in your system. You're in no state to drive!"

He tried to push past but Sam was an immovable road block. So he swung his arm and his fist connected with Sam's jaw. Sam rocked back, startled, hugged his jaw for a second then drew his hand away and stared at his fingers; there was a red trickle coming from his mouth. Dean was moving to punch again but before he made contact he was pinned against the partition and Sam's arm was across his throat.

"You've used up your quota of free punches, Dean," he snarled. He held Dean for a second, then stepped back, grabbed Dean's wrist and tried to pull the keys from Dean's grasp. And Dean punched him again.

While Sam was reeling from that he made a break for the door, but before he reached it he was grabbed from behind and hurled down onto the table, flattened over it, and Sam had his wrist pinned. The position was all too familiar from the previous occasions Sam had decided Dean wasn't fit to drive.

No. Not this time. Dean stabbed his elbow back into Sam's side, stamped down on his instep and snapped his fist back into Sam's face. Again, he didn't make the door before he found himself pinned to the partition once more and this time Sam's hand was on his throat, cutting off his windpipe. His face was in Dean's and his eyes were dark, so fucking dark . . . His fingers were clamped around Dean's wrist and his thumb was digging into it.

"Let go of the keys, Dean," he breathed, low and dangerous.

For a moment Dean genuinely believed that if he didn't give in Sam just might possibly kill him, and then he felt oddly calm. _So be it_. He was going to hang on to those keys for as long as he had air.

The pressure from Sam's thumb kept increasing until Dean's eyes were watering but he kept his grip tight and just kept staring into Sam's eyes until, after some indeterminate number of moments, he thought he saw something waver there, and then the pressure on his wrist and windpipe eased.

Sam was looking back into Dean's eyes, searching, troubled. "Dean . . . Dean what the fuck are you doing?"

Dean sucked in enough air to speak, and when he did his voice was trembling but calm and determined. "I'm going through that door, Sam," he said quietly. "You can either let me, or you can put me in hospital. Those are the choices."

He meant it. Sam knew it.

As Sam stepped back Dean turned not toward the door, but toward his bed and the duffel bag that sat at the end of it. Sam watched in a kind of weird, dissociative state as Dean dropped the bag onto the bed and started packing things into it. This wasn't happening. It couldn't be. None of this felt real.

"Dean what are you doing?"

No answer.

"Dean, come on. You're not serious."

"I am serious."

"It's the middle of the night. Where are you gonna go?"

Dean turned without answering Sam, and without looking at him, and headed for the door duffel bag in hand. Outside he dropped his bag by the Impala and popped the trunk.

"Dean, wait! Dean!" Sam followed him into the car park, shirtless and shoeless. "Dean, you can't leave. You need me!"

Dean turned. "What do I need you for, Sam?" He sounded uncharacteristically cold and hard. "You think the demon's gonna come for me? You think you can protect me? When you went up against it last time it whooped your ass, you said so yourself, so what are you gonna do that I can't? I can put down a salt line as well as you can." Dean had hold of the spare duffel now and he'd opened the weapons cache. "But it's been six months now, Sam, and the fucker hasn't raised its head and we haven't found Dad, and we're not going to find him, because you don't have the first clue where to look, and in the meantime what do we do? We hunt monsters. What the hell, Sam? Normal people, they see a monster, and they run. But not us, no. We search out things that want to kill us. You know who does that, Sam? Crazy people. It's insane." He was packing things into the bag. Sam watched without absorbing what he was doing. "You're insane. And I'm done with it. And I'm done with the bad diner food and the skeevy motel rooms. I don't need any of it. You can forget it."

"So what are you gonna do? You're just gonna live some normal, apple pie life? Is that it? You can't go home, Dean. You can't go anywhere people know you."

"Not normal, Sam. Safe."

It began to dawn on Sam that Dean was unloading all the weapons. "Dean, what are you doing?"

"I'm getting all your freak junk the fuck out of my trunk."

"Wh - ? Wait, Dean, you're not even using your head!"

Dean dumped the bag into Sam's arms. "Never have. Never will." He made his way round to the driver door.

"Dean, don't leave yourself defenseless!"

"Not defenseless, Sam. I kept all the weapons you stole from Dad's lock up."

Sam's mouth dropped open. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "I st - . . . That's really what you think?"

"You broke in, didn't you?"

"I _salvaged_ what we needed from a burned down house, Dean!"

"Whatever." Dean climbed into the car.

"Wait! _Wait!_ Dean! WAIT!" Sam turned and dashed into the motel room. When he ran back out with his own back pack Dean was already starting to reverse out and when Sam got behind the car Dean only just braked in time to keep from hitting him.

"Are you trying to get yourself killed?" Dean yelled as Sam yanked open the passenger door.

"If you're gonna do this fucking stupid thing at least don't do it in this fucking stupid way!" Sam gasped. "Holy water!" He showed Dean the bottle and dropped it on the seat, dropped the EMF monitor beside it and started rifling through his journal. He found the pages he was looking for and ripped them out. "Exorcism ritual. Dean, _please_!"

He proffered the pages and Dean stared at them for a few seconds, then he reached out. Just for a moment, as Dean took the pages from Sam's hand, Sam thought he saw something soften in his eyes, thought maybe he might just change his mind about the whole thing, but then he reached out for the door handle and Sam was forced to step back.

"Goodbye, Sam," Dean said as the door closed, and then the car pulled away.

Sam watched the tail lights until they turned a corner and disappeared and for some time after he remained there, standing with his hands clasped behind his head. Eventually he wandered back into the room, dropped onto the bed and sat there, eyes stinging, staring into nothing. He couldn't understand what had happened. He couldn't understand how everything could have gone so wrong so fast.

And he couldn't understand why the room was so dark. Every single light was on and it still seemed dark to him. And the silence was deafening.

* * *

Meg stood in the darkness of the alley across from the motel. She kicked the dead body of the old bum into the shadows behind a dumpster and watched the blood curdle and spike as she stirred her finger in the chalice.

"He's lost the key," she said. "He's alone." She paused. "Yes." Another pause. "Yes." And then, after a lengthier silence, "Yes, Father."


	3. Scene 2

**_Interstate 65_**

_._

_Check it out. Going out on the late night.  
Looking tight. Feeling nice. It's a cock fight.  
I can tell. I just know that it's going down  
Tonight._

_At the door we don't wait 'cause we know them.  
At the bar six shots just beginning.  
That's when dickhead put his hands on me.  
_

Growing up Dean had been fed a steady diet of cock rock. That's what had always played at the auto shop when he'd spent time there with Dad; it's what had always been playing in the Impala whenever they went out anywhere. In high school he got into the usual teen pop. He still had a soft spot for the nineties. In college he was introduced to a lot of different genres; it was part of the curriculum. Nowadays Dean listened to and loved all sorts of music, but he had a rule: only classic rock in the Impala. It's what she was used to. To play anything else in her was kind of like . . . a violation.

_Midnight. I'm drunk. I don't give a fuck.  
__Wanna dance by myself. Guess you're outta luck.  
__Don't touch. Back up. I'm not the one.  
__Buh-bye._

The radio was playing _Pink_. And Dean didn't give a fuck. It was even giving him some raw satisfaction to sing along – yell the lyrics – at the top of his lungs.

"_I'm not here for your entertainment!  
__You don't really wanna mess with me tonight!  
__Just stop and take a second!  
__I was fine before you walked into my life!  
__Cause you know it's over before it began!  
__Keep your drink, just gimme the money!  
__It's just you and your hand tonight!"_

At first, anyway. But there was something else underneath: something hollow, corrosive and nauseating, and eventually his voice gave out and that was all that was left.

A few times as he drove his glance fell on the paraphernalia next to him: the holy water, the EMF monitor, the exorcism ritual. Then he gathered them up and slung them in the back. He didn't want to look at them. He didn't want to see them. He didn't want any of that shit.

He just wanted his fucking life back.

His eyes began to sting and he swallowed._ Stupid._

And then he found his gaze repeatedly straying to the empty seat instead, and the sick ache swelled in his chest again.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid._

He kept driving until he eventually found himself parked outside a late night bar just off the highway. He closed his eyes and wiped a hand down his face, took a deep breath and let it out again. O.K.

"So, Mr. Winchester, do you think there's any better way you might have handled that?" Dean murmured, and in his mind he sounded like his old University counselor. 'Cause that had been a real smart move, hadn't it? Yeah, _real_ smart: go head to head with the mass monster killer. Dean was lucky he hadn't gotten himself full on ganked.

_What were you thinking, Winch?_

Dean opened his eyes as a wave of nostalgia and longing hit him. _Winch._ When was the last time he'd heard that? He missed it, along with all the people who'd called him by that name and the simple life he'd had with them. He found himself pulling out his cell phone and he started to pan through his contacts, stopping when the highlight rested on the number of his old college buddy, Jimmy.

Oh, yeah, _that_ made sense. He runs away from Sam and the first person he wants to call is the last asshole who dragged Dean into all his fights with him and got Dean beaten up on a regular basis. What was it about Dean and guys who have TROUBLE stamped onto them in great big, uppercase, gothic script letters?

But with Jim it had just been the regular kind of trouble: the kind a smart mouth, too many beers and a love of mischief gets you. It had been about cuts and bruises and, at worst, being kicked out of college . . . never about life and death . . .

Hadn't he known, though? Hadn't he known from the moment he'd first seen Sam put down those two hustlers outside Jack's Bar back home that Sam was dangerous? Still Dean had kept rattling the cage, rattling the cage, waiting to see what would come out, and then he was surprised when the first thing it did when it smashed through the lock was to grab Dean's throat. What had he expected? Sam didn't fight for the hell of it, he didn't trade punches; he fought when he had to and took out his opponent fast and hard. Dean was lucky _not_ to be in hospital right now.

He was about to close his cell, but he hesitated for a few moments, let the highlight skip down to the bottom of the screen where it hung over Penny's number. Dean had few numbers left in his contact file these days, and he knew who was next on the list, hovering just beyond the bottom of the screen. One click would bring his name into view. Dean wasn't going there. Not yet, anyway. He needed a time out, space to take a few, think about his next move. He closed the cell, replaced it in his pocket, got out of the car and headed into the bar.

Because, obviously, what Dean _really_ needed right now was more alcohol.

The bar was dark and heavy with timber, and it smelled of beer, sweat and testosterone. The glare of a couple of video screens penetrated the gloom and the sound of sports commentary competed with a general hubbub that occasionally erupted with shouts, jeers and laughter. The few women in the bar were hovering close to groups of men, several of whom were congregated in one corner. Dean could hear the crack of billiard balls colliding as he stepped up to the bar and ordered a double. After paying for the drink he stared gloomily at the last lonely bill that remained in his wallet and reflected that it could use some company. His attention gravitated toward the corner.

Dean had always had an aptitude for pool, and he was a better player now than he'd ever been, but it wasn't just about playing the balls; he knew that now. He needed to be smart. He moved quietly into the orbit of the players and watched in silence at first, feigning mild interest. Gradually he began to respond to the better shots, casually cheering and applauding. Once his presence had been acknowledged and accepted he began to respond to the poorer shots as well, sympathetically at first then, just occasionally, mocking. It wasn't long after that he was invited to participate, challenged to do better.

Doing better was easy but knowing when to drop shots, and making it convincing, took just as much skill. Balancing charm and diplomacy while goading his opponents into errors of judgment was even trickier; accepting small losses and smoothing over the wins to milk the table for as long as possible all needed concentration and focus. Dean's wasn't perfect, and toward the end he started fumbling odd shots he hadn't intended to, but he stayed at the table long enough to make a tidy profit. Unfortunately he couldn't resist the temptation to win a little bigger on his last game, and he pissed off a few people when he walked away.

Smart move, in retrospect, would have been to buy drinks for the players with his winnings. Who knows why it didn't occur to him. Maybe the whiskey was beginning to get to him, cloud his thinking a little, but at one time he'd have done it without thinking. Maybe it had been too long since he'd last had money that was his to give away – unequivocally his, not just a share of somebody else's winnings doled out to him like an allowance. He was feeling pleased with himself and with his haul, maybe a little too pleased.

He was feeling a little light headed, too, as he approached the bar. Now that he didn't have the game to draw his focus he was definitely starting to notice the effects of the drinks he'd been putting away. Didn't stop him ordering another double, though.

He'd attracted the attention of most of the women in the bar while he'd been playing and one of them moved in as he upended the contents of the glass down his throat: a curvy, denim-clad brunette - all big brown eyes, red lips and cleavage. She struck a coquettish pose at the bar, leaning on her elbow and resting her head against her knuckles.

"So, where did you appear from all of a sudden?" she asked. "I haven't seen your pretty face round here before."

Dean assumed an easy grin and tried to take her comment for the compliment she presumably intended it to be. "Oh, I get around," he assured her.

"I'll bet you do," she replied archly. Evidently _that_ was meant as a compliment as well.

Still, Dean was more inclined to be sociable than nitpick the subtlety of her approach so he asked her name and offered to buy her a drink. Before she could reply Dean was hailed by the last guy he'd beaten at the pool table: a tall thick-set mook with lank hair and a two day growth that was masquerading as designer stubble.

"Hey, Buddy!" the guy yelled, though his tone was inconsistent with a friendly overture. "She's with me!"

Dean arched an eyebrow and turned an inquiring look toward his new companion. "He yours?" he asked, tossing a nod toward the interruption.

She shrugged and twisted her lips into a provocative smirk. Dean had her number; he'd met the type before: women who enjoyed stirring trouble and watching men fight – not remotely worth fighting over. Any other night, Dean would have apologized politely for his mistake and walked away.

He relaxed back against the bar and trailed his arms along it in a gesture that simultaneously included the woman in his space and made his body an open invitation and challenge. "I think the lady can make that choice for herself, Pal," he said, wearing a grin that could have cut glass.

"You smart-ass fuck - !"

As the dick lunged forward Dean dodged to one side and let the man's own momentum carry him into Dean's fist as he buried it in his gut. Then, as the guy jack-knifed and pitched forward, Dean helped him on his way with an elbow between the shoulder blades and a swift kick to the back of the knee. He collapsed like a pack of cards and lay on the floor whimpering.

And Dean stared down at him, lips parted with surprise and shock. _That easy?_

Only trouble was, as Dean soon realized when others started looming round him, murmuring angrily . . . the guy had friends.

* * *

Sam startled as a bird thudded against the window, and clung to it fluttering precariously. There were other bird noises now, he noticed, and the darkness was drifting into grey. Until that moment he hadn't realized how long he'd been inside his own head, going over it all, trying to figure out what he'd missed. He glanced at his watch and felt something sink inside him. It was a physical thing that ache, that burn. It had weight and mass.

_He'd have been back by now. If he was coming back. He'd be back by now._

The irony stung. How many times had he inwardly fumed at Dean's mercurial mood swings? Now he realized he'd been counting on them, telling himself that once Dean calmed down he'd see things differently, that he'd return prepared to take back everything he'd said in the heat of the moment. But he hadn't. Because he'd meant it. All of it. Every word. And the worst of it was that Sam wasn't even sure he was wrong.

It had been easy – _real_ easy – at first, to blame Dean. Because there'd been no warning. None. Just Dean being a jerk, like always, like he always had been, everywhere with everyone. And Sam wasn't supposed to get mad, because it didn't mean anything, it was just Dean teasing, just in fun. Fun for fucking Dean, anyway. Well, Sam had had a gutful of Dean's games, Dean's jokes, never serious, about anything – until suddenly out of nowhere he's so fucking serious he's like hurricane fucking Katrina on legs.

Hints? What hints? Dean had changed? Started meaning it? When? Why? Sam hadn't noticed anything different. More often, maybe. More crass. But still just Dean's usual crap. Until suddenly he was right in front of Sam, and he wasn't joking any more. He wasn't grinning or winking, he was just there, all wide eyed and open and holding himself out to Sam like a fucking gift. And something in Sam just crumbled.

It didn't matter, though, Sam had eventually acknowledged. None of that mattered. It wasn't even the point. The point was it shouldn't have happened. It wasn't supposed to have happened, ever. Sam should have said no. He did say no. But he didn't mean it, and Dean knew it. He should have meant it. He just . . . he wasn't prepared. He'd never expected it to be an issue.

The point was, Sam was the one who'd crossed the lines. He hadn't meant to. Not the first time, anyway. That was an accident. He just hadn't been paying attention. He was just so stunned and confused, lost in the pounding in his own head and the fire in his blood, that he hadn't noticed that Dean had changed . . . _again_ . . . until suddenly Dean was flailing and yelling and . . . panicking . . .

Sam had never seen Dean panic before. Except . . . maybe that first night, when Sam had knocked Dean to the floor and pulled a gun on him . . . . . .

He'd seen him afraid – after all that had happened, all the creatures they'd fought, all the injuries Dean had sustained, who could blame him? But Sam had hurt Dean, or he'd frightened him, or both, and suddenly Dean was yelling and shouting and fighting like Sam was the enemy . . . and that's how Sam had behaved.

And Sam knew better than that. You don't argue with someone who's panicking. You don't confront them. And you don't fight out of anger. Not that Sam had never been angry in battle before . . . but he hadn't _been_ in battle. He'd just acted like it. He'd treated Dean the same way he'd treat a vampire or a skin walker, because he was angry, and because that's all he knew. Bottom line: Sam had ceased to be a friend the moment he'd put his thumb on Dean's windpipe.

No wonder Dean had walked. Why would he stay after that? Sam was deluding himself when he'd said Dean needed him. Everything Dean had said had only been an echo of the things Sam himself had been thinking for a while now. Dean had already learned everything Sam could teach him, and it wasn't enough: it couldn't protect him from the one thing that mattered. Sam couldn't protect him from that, he never could. All Sam had ever done was put Dean in harm's way. In all these months the demon hadn't shown itself, and who knew when or if it really would. Sam could get Dean killed next week.

Or maybe a fight could go too far, Sam could go too far. Dean didn't trust him any more, and he was right not to. Sam didn't trust himself, not around Dean. Dean could push his buttons in a way no one else ever had, make him angry in ways nothing else did. It wasn't safe.

The voice of Saul Whitman whispered in Sam's head:

_He'll turn you into a monster . . ._

Sam was already a monster, had been for a while. Maybe always. Dean was better off getting away from him, starting again in some small town, keeping his head low; leading that safe life he'd talked about. It was better that way.

Sam stood up and started collecting his things together. As he opened his backpack and started loading his stuff into it he realized it was poorly organized. Six months of exposure to Dean's careless ways had impacted on Sam's discipline. He'd gotten into some bad habits. Better to start again. He emptied the contents of the bag onto the bed, organized it into logical piles, and then started repacking it.

He picked up his sketch pad first. He was sliding it into its place in the pack when he hesitated, pulled it out again, flicked through the pages and let it fall open at the portrait of Dean he'd sketched that evening by the lake, so long ago now. He stared at it for a while, falling into it, letting his fingers trace over the lines of the mouth, the lips, following the curl of the eye-lashes. Just lines of graphite on a sheet of paper, and still that face had radiance – the face of a dream Sam had once, before he'd met Dean, before he even knew who he was.

Sam's eyes prickled. He sniffed and wiped at the corners of his lashes with the heel of his hand. He moved to put the pad away, but before the pages closed he found himself falling back on an old childhood habit and prayed to whatever power there might be in the universe that could watch over Dean and keep him safe.

He was momentarily distracted by the flutter of departing wings. He glanced up at the window but the bird had gone, and by the time he returned his attention to his backpack he'd already packed the sketch pad in the bottom.

It was better this way, for both of them. It would be a relief, even, to have his ordered routine back again; not to have to worry about Dean, not to have to consider him, not to have to deal with the noise and chaos that came with him, not to be continually assaulted by Dean's presence and the exhausting struggle against the feelings that presence aroused in Sam.

When he'd packed he went around the room performing his last minute checks, sweeping up the salt, throwing away litter and the detritus Dean had left in his wake: a forgotten toothbrush, an empty can of styling mousse, empty pie boxes, the uneaten pizza, a broken guitar string, screwed up bits of paper, napkins, beer mats with snatches of lyric on them. He caught a few lines of one as it dropped into the waste bin:

_A suffering soul trapped in a mind of steel  
__An empty heart afraid to feel  
__Can't think what to do with all that fire and rage  
__Except to lock it in an ice-cold cage  
__So what would it take to set you free?  
__Tell me, where's the lock, and where's the key?_

Before he left he took one last look around the dark, silent room with its cheerless drapes and worn bed covers, at the ubiquitous partition with its decorative birds, cold and lifeless in their metal cage.

After he'd settled the bill he called Dean. He didn't expect him to be awake yet but it made it easier not having to speak to him. He just left a message on the voicemail, apologizing and wishing him well. Then he hoisted the pack onto his back, picked up the duffel filled with his sundry weapons and headed out onto the road.

He'd done this before: walked this road, by himself.

Seemed harder this time.


	4. Scene 3

_Another skeevy motel room, apparently. Somewhere. Anywhere. Who gives a fuck?_

This was the worst yet. The room was over lit with fluorescent tubes and the décor was a punch of lurid purples and yellows, kind of like the colors of a bruise. The walls were hung with those horrid pastel portraits of crying children that some people seem to think are cute. What the hell? What kind of monster likes to see children crying all day long?

There was just the one bed, but it was ridiculously oversized. It looked just like the one back in Texas. Oh, and there was a partition. Of course. Plain bars this time. If Dean got too close it made him feel like he was in a prison cell.

When Dean sat on the bed he found it was a lot harder than it looked. He dropped onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. Oh, _pur- lease! _Sky blue. With little white clouds painted on it. But it was riven through with cracks, and it was like they were letting the dark in.

Suddenly there was a heavy beating on the door and Dean's heart leapt in his chest and started racing. Had he put the salt down? He couldn't remember. _Had he? _Then another heavy bang and a crunch and the door flew open, and a dark silhouette loomed in the frame. Dean instinctively reached under the pillow and his fingers curled around the hilt of Sam's eleven inch bowie knife.

The fuck was he doing with _that_?

"Dean!"

The shape stepped out of the shadows and Dean's heart leapt and raced again but in a totally different way this time. Sam! _Oh, sweet God!_ It was Sam.

His brow was tightly furrowed and he stared at Dean with dewy eyes and the expression of a drowned puppy. His hair clung wetly to his face and cheeks and his pecs pressed visibly against the damp fabric of his shirt. Either he'd just taken a shower or it was raining outside. A sudden clap of thunder and the sound of a heavy downpour seemed to confirm the latter.

Dean stood up and his voice came out of him in a kind of breathy gasp. "You found me?"

Sam took another step forward and held out his hands in a kind of anxious, pleading gesture, like he was reaching for Dean but didn't dare touch. "I had to, Dean, I can't . . . I can't do this, Dean. Not without you. It's just . . . it's all wrong without you, Dean, please . . ." Eyebrows wrinkled, nostrils quivered, chin crumpled. "I'm sorry, Dean. I'm _so _sorry . . . for _everything_. I didn't mean to . . . I was just so . . . I've wanted you for so long, Dean, so much . . . you don't know, you have no idea . . . and I couldn't let you go Dean, I just _couldn't_ . . . I need you, Dean. I – " He swallowed. "I love you, Dean. I've always loved you, from the first time I saw your face in your living room back home." Another tentative reach, just short of touching. "Please forgive me, Dean. I promise I'll never hurt you again. Just . . . just take me back, _please_. I'll do anything, Dean. Anything you want. _Please._" Puppy dog eyes pleaded with Dean, hazel swimming with liquid blue and gold hues.

"Sssh, Sam," Dean replied softly. He moved forward and slipped his hand round the back of Sam's neck, slipped his fingers behind Sam's ear. Gently drawing Sam's head down, he rested their foreheads together. "Sssh, it's O.K, Sam," he murmured. "I never wanted to hurt you either. All I wanted was to make you feel good." He let his lips brush against Sam's, cupped his other hand around Sam's hip.

Sam swallowed again. His hands hovered hungry but uncertain around Dean's shoulders. "I don't know what to do," he admitted. "Dean . . . I don't know _anything_."

"I'll show you, Babe," Dean cooed. "Let me take care of _you_ for once." He turned Sam's pliant body and guided him down onto the bed, and as they lay back together Dean gazed down into the golden hazel of Sam's eyes and smiled. And Sam smiled back . . . but there was something about the way the corners of his lips twisted that Dean wasn't altogether sure he liked. Sam's mouth split into a knowing grin and then he laughed, harsh and mocking. _His eyes were yellow_.

Dean tried to pull away but he felt like he was moving through syrup, and then the demon's hand was around his throat. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breath. He flailed and snatched at the air as he felt himself falling. The next moment his body was rocked with the concussion of impact and his head cracked back against something hard and unyielding. He was assaulted by all manner of pain and all he could do for a few moments was lay still with his eyes screwed closed waiting for it to subside.

When he opened his eyes he was sweating and panting, and he was alone. "_Fuck_," he gasped, raising a shaking hand and wiping trickles of sweat away from his eyes. "_Fuck_."

Lifting himself onto his elbows, he made an effort to bring his breathing back under control, get his bearings. All the bright colors were gone now, and the world around him was filled with shades of grey. The ceiling was grey, the walls were grey stone, he was clinging to a coarse dark grey blanket that hung from a low cot bed . . . from which he'd presumably just fallen. He was lying on cold bare concrete, and now he was sitting upright he could see through steel bars to the stone walls of the corridor beyond.

"O.K. Deano, get a grip," he scolded himself quietly. "It was just a dream."

And in the plus column, he was alive, and Sam wasn't a demon. On the other hand, he appeared to be in jail.

_Crap._ It was all starting to come back to him now. _O – ohhhhhh CRAP!_

Struggling up onto the cot he sat and waited for the waves of nausea to pass. His head was splitting. He had a feeling that the crack on the back of his skull only partially accounted for the pain, though. He ached all over, and there were numerous smaller concentrations of soreness all over his body . . . and face. He found his jaw and eye socket were tender when he brushed his fingers over them, and his lip stung as his thumb found a split. The worst was his arm, which was throbbing painfully, and there were flecks of blood on his shirt. Looked like he might have pulled a stitch or two. His memory of the previous evening was still sketchy but he had a vague recollection of the fight. Couldn't remember how it had ended, though.

Movement in the periphery of his vision caught his attention and he looked up. A man with a badge stood outside the cell.

_Oh, yeah._ That was how it ended.

"Good of you to join us," the man drawled.

Dean stood. "Good morning, Officer . . . it _is_ morning, I presume?"

The sheriff scoffed. "Just barely. You've been out for a _while_. So . . ." he lifted what looked like a driver's license, squinted at it and scrutinized Dean. "According to this your name's John Bonham?"

_Uh-oh_. Dean smiled brightly. "Ah . . . right!"

"Isn't that the drummer from Led Zeppelin?"

Dean swallowed. "Wow. Good. Classic rock fan."

"Also, fake license plates, D&D, damage to property, assault – "

"Hey, they started it!" _Probably. Pretty sure._

"Yeah, well, you finished it."

Dean's eyes widened. "Really?"

The sheriff glowered at him. "It's nothing to be proud of, Son. You put two guys in the E.R."

_Fuck._ "Are they O.K?"

"They'll live. So you wanna tell me your real name, John?"

Dean hesitated. No. Really didn't.

Fortunately a deputy appeared at that moment. "We just got a 911," he told the sherriff. "Shots fired over at Whiteford Road."

The sherriff sighed impatiently. "When I get back you and me are gonna have a talk," he told Dean.

"Hey, don't I get a phonecall?" Dean asked.

"Sure. Who do you wanna call?"

_Ah. Good question._ Dean smiled nervously. "Actually, I'll just take a rain check on that."

Alone again Dean sat back down on the cot and dropped his head in his hands. Well, just a few hours out from under Sam and he was in maybe the deepest doo-doo he'd ever been in and he'd gotten there all by himself. Awesome.

There was only one person he _could_ call; all his other friends were on the other side of the country. But the last thing he wanted to do after his big bid-for-freedom scene was call Sam and admit he needed him to come and bust him out of jail. He'd put off swallowing that big spoonful of smug and righteous until he absolutely had to.

_God. _Arrested for brawling. The Sherriff was right. It was nothing to be proud of, even if he had come out on top. Mom would have been so ashamed of him, and Dad . . . well, Dad would too . . . but he'd have been _more_ ashamed if Dean had lost . . .

Dean's head still throbbed painfully. He let it fall back into his hands for a few moments as his eyes blurred with another wash of dizziness. When his vision cleared he noticed something weird . . . lettering carved . . . no, _stamped_ into the concrete in great big, uppercase, gothic script letters:

GO BACK. HE NEEDS YOU.

Dean raised his eyebrows and jerked his head back . . . which wasn't a smart thing to do because it set his head swimming again. When he looked down again the message was gone. _What the hell?_

He closed his eyes and opened them again, but the concrete obstinately refused to perform any more tricks. _O – kayee._ Could it have been a lingering remnant of the dream? Or did he have concussion?

Dean looked up when he heard the sound of keys jangling and he discoveed a young clerk was unlocking the cell. He opened the door and waited for Dean to walk through it.

"Where are we going?" Dean asked.

"You're free to go," the clerk told him. "Your friend posted bail."

"Sam? _Sam's_ here?" Dean followed the clerk to the reception area feeling an ambivalent mix of emotions. "_Sammy?_" he called tentatively, but there was no one there.

"He didn't leave a name." The clerk walked behind the desk and pulled out a tray with a collection of familiar items on it. Dean's attention was divided between the tray and the car park. He couldn't see anyone out there, either.

"Tall guy," Dean elaborated, holding his hand a generous number of inches above his own head. "Brown hair, hazel . . . hazel eyes."

The clerk stared vaguely at Dean. "Not so tall," he said. "Dark hair. Blue eyes. Bluest eyes I've ever seen . . ."

Dean moved from disappointment through puzzlement to unease. That description didn't fit anyone he knew, and there was something off about the clerk. He seemed kind of absent, like he was acting in a daze . . . like someone had done a major Obi Wan Kenobe number on the dude . . .

"You need to sign for these," he told Dean, and pushed a form and pen across the desk.

Dean studied the young man for a moment then signed in the air just above the form and replaced the pen. He watched as the clerk checked the non-existent signature, dropped the form in a tray and handed Dean his effects. Yeah, that wasn't weird at all.

He picked up his driver's license, wallet, cell phone and other bits and pieces . . . and the last item in the tray was his amulet . . . As Dean looked at it his chest tightened until the ache seemed to form a solid lump that swelled and rose and lodged in this throat. Sam had given him that when they'd hunted together for the first time . . .

It felt oddly cold in his hand. When he slipped the leather string over his neck, the brass carving slipped under his shirt and made him gasp with its chill against his flesh. He pulled it out and breathed on it to warm it up then dropped it back down his front. Wasn't any better. He guessed his body heat would warm it up again in time but, damn, it was chilly.

He retrieved the Impala from where she'd been impounded, courtesy of his tame zombie who'd signed the release, and then Dean figured he'd better put as much road between himself and this town as soon as possible before somebody decided Dean was the droid they were looking for after all.

But first he opened his cell phone. After all, he had a legitimate reason to call Sam now. A guy with freaky color eyes was _intel_. Well, O.K. blue wasn't _that_ freaky – not like red, or black . . . or yellow – and bailing Dean out of jail wasn't exactly an act of aggression, but the guy definitely had mojo and it was freaking Dean out a bit that he'd shown up the moment Dean was on his own. Dean wasn't going to mention the freaking out part to Sam, though.

When the screen lit up, Dean's face lit up with it. He had a message. His heart was beating fast as he checked his voicemail and he felt a wild fluttering in his gut when he heard Sam's voice:

"Hi, Dean. (pause) I'm just calling to apologize for the way I behaved last night. I guess things got more out of hand than either of us intended, but I crossed a line, and I'm truly sorry."

_Yeah, you did, Pal._

"It's not the way I'd have wanted things to end between us, but I think you were right to leave. You probably called it right when you said you didn't need me any more and . . . well, honestly, I don't think we're good for each other. If I do get any information about your father or the demon, I'll call you. But right now you should just find a quiet podunk town somewhere and . . . you go live some normal, apple-pie life, Dean. (long pause) Be safe."

Dean couldn't feel the phone any more. Sam's voice sounded as cold and soulless as the bottom level of Hell and it was like the chill of it was numbing Dean's fingers and seeping through his body.

So that was it? The End? _Fin?_

_Damn_, they'd had their differences, sure, but they'd fought side by side for six months, lived together so close it was like they were a fucking married couple or something . . . and that's how Sam ended it all? With a fucking _voicemail message_?"

Oh, wait . . .

_Who_ ended it?

_Fuck_ . . .

_Fuck. Jesus! Fuck!_

What the _fuck_ was Dean gonna do _now_?

.


	5. Scene 4

_**Burkitsville, Indiana – Scotty's Café **_

.

"_Well baby, there you stand_  
_with your little head, down in your hand._  
_Oh, my God. Can't believe_  
_it's happening again;_  
_Your baby's gone, and you're all alone,_  
_and it looks like the end_."

_Shuddup.  
_

"_And you're back out on the street._  
_And you're tryin' to remember._  
_How do you start it over?_  
_Don't know if you can._  
_You don't care much for a stranger's touch,_  
_but you can't hold your man_."

Dean glared at the radio trying to will it to shut up with the power of his mind. No dice. And he didn't think the café owner (Scotty, presumably) would be too impressed if Dean asked him to change the station because Don Henley was mocking him. Scotty was already trying to act like he couldn't see Dean, and he wasn't the only one. Dean had learned that lesson from just about everyone he'd met since he'd arrived in town: two day old clothes and a face full of bruises will render you invisible.

Scotty only had eyes for the young couple in the corner, honeymooners touring the country. He was explaining that the town was famous for its apples, and pressing apple pie on them, "on the house" he said. Dean hadn't been offered free pie. Maybe just as well 'cause, right at this moment, Dean reckoned he'd choke on it. So, instead, he sat nursing half a cup of tepid black coffee, cradling his throbbing head in the heel of his hand, waiting for the ibuprofen to kick in and thinking that Sam's sure fire hangover cure would go down _real_ well right about now.

_"And the hours go by like minutes_  
_and the shadows come to stay_  
_So you take a little something_  
_to make them go away_  
_And I could have done so many things, baby_  
_If I could only stop my mind from wonderin' what_  
_I left behind . . . "_

The bruise on his wrist was the most painful. It was all the colors of the angriest part of the rainbow, and there was a scab where Sam's thumbnail had broken the skin. And his throat was still a little sore when he swallowed. But out of all the bruises that Dean was currently sporting all over his body he realized that those two marks were the only residue of the fight with Sam. And how many times had he hit Sam? All things considered Dean had to acknowledge the guy had kept his temper pretty well after all. And, in retrospect, he had to admit that Sam had had a point: the bar fight and the visit to jail kinda confirmed that Dean hadn't been in the best frame of mind to go out.

A shadow crossing the table caught Dean's attention briefly and he registered a young woman making her way toward the counter clutching a handful of flyers. _Pretty girl_, he thought absently.

Wasn't the point though. It wasn't on Sam to tell Dean how he should and shouldn't behave, let alone _make_ Dean do whatever _he_ thought was right, just because he _could._ So what was Dean supposed to do? Just let Sam make him his muppet any time they had a difference of opinion? He had to make a stand somewhere, didn't he? Draw a line?

_"Sometimes to keep it together,_  
_you got to leave it alone_."

_Yeah, well I hope you're right, Don, 'cause I may just have drawn a line between me and the only freaking friend I had left in the world._

"I was wondering if you'd seen these people by chance," the girl asked Scotty.

" Nope. Who are they?"

"Friends of mine. They went missing about a year ago. They passed through somewhere around here, and I've already asked around Scottsburg and Salem— "

"Sorry. We don't get many strangers around here."

The girl looked pointedly at Dean and the two tourists but said nothing. Just ordered coffee and pie and took a seat near the honeymooners.

Ah, no, come on, it wasn't _that _bad. Dean had friends. Not nearby, admittedly . . . and none that he'd actually spoken to for . . . well, months, maybe . . . he could never think of what to say even when he had the cover of the road trip with Sam and could make up stories about seeing the world's second biggest ball of twine . . . What was he supposed to say now that he was stuck in Burkitsville Indiana all by himself?

He took out his cell phone anyway and scanned his contacts, hovered over Penny's number . . . so damned tempted . . . but, no. That wouldn't be right. Wouldn't be fair calling Penny just so he could talk to someone, anyone. Wasn't Penny he wanted to talk to.

He let the highlight drop down one more place.

Just so he could look at the name.

_Fucking pathetic._

What was the matter with him? Was he really such a fucking loser that just a few hours out of Sam's company he felt like he had a hole in the middle of him somewhere? What? Was he in love with the guy or something?

. . .

. . .

_Oh crap_.

. . .

Dean swallowed, slow and hard. Well . . . whatever. Didn't matter. Crawling back to Sam with his tail between his legs wasn't an option right now. No guarantee Sam would take him back and, even if he did, he would _own_ Dean ever after

"How ya doin'?" The girl greeted the couple. "Just passing through?"

"Road trip."

"Yeah, me too . . . well, hitch-hiking."

"I'm sure these people want to eat in peace," Scotty interrupted. Dean wondered idly why he was giving the girl a hard time. It was just a little friendly conversation.

And O.K. so Sam was mad at the moment, but maybe once he'd cooled down they'd be able to at least get back on speaking terms . . . except he hadn't sounded mad, exactly. In fact, he was cool enough to store beer in. He just sounded . . . done. And who could blame him? He'd never wanted to get back into hunting in the first place. If it hadn't been for Dean, Sam would still be leading a quiet life as a mechanic somewhere. That'd slipped Dean's mind. It wasn't Sam who'd dragged _Dean_ back into the life. He'd just swooped in, faster than a speeding bullet, and flown Dean away from the burning building.

"So, what brings you to town?

"We just stopped for gas. And, uh, the guy at the gas station saved our lives."

"Is that right?

"Yeah, one of our brake lines was leaking. We had no idea. He was fixing it for us."

"Nice people."

"Yeah."

Guess Dean had just handed Sam a free pass to drop the burden.

"So, how long till you're up and running?"

"Sundown."

Dean frowned slowly. How long? He looked up and glanced from the couple to the girl. Pretty sure it wouldn't have taken Dad that long, or Sam. The girl seemed to think it was odd, too.

"Really," she said. "To fix a brake line? I mean, you know, I know a thing or two about cars. I could probably have you up and running in about an hour. I wouldn't charge you anything."

Dean's respect for the girl – young woman he should say – raised up a few notches.

"You know, thanks a lot, but I think we'd rather have a mechanic do it."

Pretty wasn't the right description either, now that he was taking a closer look at her. Good looking, yes. Really, strikingly attractive in spite of prim attire – gingham blouse and homespun cardigan, and blonde hair pulled back in a virginal pony tail – but she had an intelligent face, big bright eyes, and a great body under those clothes.

She leaned toward the couple and dropped her voice a little. "You know, it's just that these roads. They're not real safe at night."

The couple started to look uncomfortable. "I'm sorry?" said the wife.

"I know it sounds strange, but, uh—you might be in danger."

"Look, we're trying to eat. Okay?" said the husband.

This whole conversation was starting to sound way familiar to Dean. How many times had he and Sam tried to warn unsuspecting civilians about vague threats, feeling hog-tied and gagged by the knowledge that words like "ghost", "ghoul" and "monster" weren't going to gain their trust.

But here Dean was leaping to conclusions like every town in America had something supernatural going on in it. Probably wasn't what the young woman meant at all.

She caught Dean looking at her and he automatically flashed a bright grin, was a little disconcerted when he didn't get the usual bright response. In fact she gave him a sharp green flash of her eyes that clearly said "mind your business." Oh, yeah. He'd forgotten about the whole 'invisible' thing. Didn't matter. Not like that was what was on his mind. She wasn't even his type. He gave his hair a self conscious scruff but it flopped straight back down in a lank fringe over his forehead.

The door opened behind him and Scotty headed toward it. Dean glanced back but hurriedly returned his attention to the table when he saw the uniform of the newcomer, and busied himself with studying the menu. Turned out the sheriff wasn't looking for a runaway D&D, though. Instead he had a few words with Scotty then made a beeline for the young woman.

"I'd like a word, please," he told her.

She stared up at him incredulously. "Oh, come on. I'm having a bad day already," she said.

He leaned over her table and replied sotto voce "you don't want to make it worse."

For a moment she stared straight ahead of her with an expression on her face like she was sucking marbles, then she uncrossed her long legs, rose to her feet in a fluid motion and headed toward the door with the Sherriff following close behind her. There was _definitely_ something wonky here. Why were they all giving this girl such a hard time just 'cause she was trying to find her friends?

Dean allowed a decent interval then dropped enough cash onto the table to cover the coffee and headed outside. The young woman was climbing into the sheriff's car as Dean moved toward the Impala and he noted the direction they took as they drove off. Before he climbed into the car he noticed a piece of paper under the windscreen. All the cars in the road had one. When he took it out and unfolded it he realized it was one of the flyers the young woman had been showing around: a missing persons poster with photos and descriptions of a young couple, names Vince and Holly Parker. . . not unlike the honeymooners in the café, Dean mused.

As he climbed behind the wheel he took out his cell phone again and sent a text to Sam (didn't trust his voice right now), acknowledging his call and reciprocating his apology. Nothing too heavy. Friendly sounding, he hoped; something if it didn't exactly mend bridges at least wouldn't burn them down.

He didn't exactly know what he was going to do with himself, but right now he was curious to know what was up with the good people of Burkitsville. He still had an earworm wriggling around in his brain from the song that had been playing in the café:

"_So you can get on with your search, baby,_  
_and I can get on with mine,_  
_and maybe someday we will find,_  
_that it wasn't really wasted time_."

He pushed a tape into the cassette player as he steered the Impala out of town on the road the sheriff's car had taken, and _Back in Black _blasted out of the speakers.

.

_**An internet café near the bus station.**_

There was a child in Wisconsin helping to solve murder cases. It was clutching at straws, Sam knew that. The US was crawling with psychics and mediums, genuine or otherwise, and most of them had nothing to do with the demon . . . so far as he knew. Sam just had a personal tick about psychic children. This was probably nothing. But probably nothing was better than nothing. At least it would show Dean that Sam wasn't sitting on his hands about the demon.

He was about to get up from the cubicle, but then a thought crossed his mind. He took a quick sweep around and behind him to make sure nobody could see what he was doing then he entered the phrase "anal sex" into the search engine. A little while later he left the cubicle red-faced and better educated.

So he was pre-occupied as he stood up, which was probably part of the reason why he walked straight into the petite girl with the short-cropped blonde hair and the back pack. But the other part was that she had earpieces stuck in her ears and wasn't watching where she was going. Unfortunately she had a take out cup of coffee in her hand and as they collided it slopped over her fingers. She cried out in pain and dropped the cup, and its contents splattered over the floor.

"Sorry!" Sam gasped.

"Look what you made me do, you freak!" she snapped. "Why don't you look where you're going?"

With that she stormed over to the other side of the café and dropped into a chair huffing and drying her hand with her napkin.

Now, admittedly Sam's social skills weren't as sharp as they might be, but he was pretty sure it was conventional for both parties to apologize when they accidentally bumped into each other. On the other hand, that coffee was probably hot and hurt her hand, so perhaps he should make allowances.

As he watched she took off the back pack and started searching in its pockets. Presently it became clear that she was hunting for loose change as she gathered together a few odd coins from different places, but as she counted them out on the table it was apparent they weren't enough. She scooped her inadequate hoard back into her pocket, folded her arms and stared disconsolately out of the window.

_Great_. Just what Sam needed. More guilt.


	6. Scene 5

Sam placed the coffee on the table in front of the young woman and dropped some packets of sugar and a stirrer next to it.

"I hope that's O.K," he said. "I didn't know how you took it."

She stared up at him, her big dark eyes wide with surprise, and then her face split with an equally big wide grin. "You didn't have to do that, silly! It was as much my fault as yours."

Sam shrugged. "Well, maybe I needed to do a good deed for my soul." He turned to leave but she hailed him back.

"Hey! Are you just going to buy me coffee then walk away?" she asked, still grinning. "That's a little rude, don't you think?"

Sam's brow wrinkled with a slightly perplexed frown. Was she flirting with him? That was . . . kind of a new experience for him. He found himself toying with his newly growing hair. Maybe Dean had been right about that.

"Er . . . I was just on my way to the bus station," he explained awkwardly.

"Oh, yeah? Where are you headed?"

"Wisconsin."

"No way! Me, too. Well, you don't need to hurry. The next bus isn't until tomorrow. I already checked."

"Tomorrow? You're kidding! Isn't there any other way?"

"Oh, sure there is. Buy a car. Maybe we could share. I've got 36c, if you can put up the rest." She pushed out the chair opposite her with her foot. "Or you can make yourself comfortable while we wait for the bus," she suggested.

Sam smiled and shook his head a little, but he took the seat. Well, he didn't want to be rude.

The girl leaned forward and extended her hand. "I'm Meg,"

He grinned shyly, ducked his head for a moment then accepted the proffered hand. "Sam," he replied.

"So what's in Wisconsin that's so important?" she asked.

Sam shrugged. He was about to give her some vague answer about a job when he felt his cell phone buzz in his pocket.

"Oh, excuse me," he muttered as he fished it out with what probably looked like unseemly haste.

A rapid flux of emotions followed the first thud of his heart as he opened the message. Relief, first, as he noted that the tone didn't seem angry. Hope flared then faded just as fast as he took in the sense. There was no indication that Dean had had any kind of change of heart, no mention of coming back.

"Well you dont get podunkier than burkitsville, in," it read. "Famous for its apple pie im told lol. Look im sorry too sam. Keep in touch huh?"

But he'd already decided that was for the best, hadn't he? And at least it appeared that Dean no longer wanted to utterly sever their relationship. That was something, right? Still, as Sam stared at the message he felt a hot flush of indignation settling over him. The whole tone seemed utterly inappropriate to him under the circumstance.

"Lol means 'laugh out loud', right?" he asked his companion.

"Yeah, why?"

How could Dean do that? How could he reduce everything that had passed between them down to lighthearted banter and joking? How could he be so cavalier about it?

"Oh, nothing." Scowling, Sam closed his cell and thrust it back into his pocket. "Just this friend of mine . . . ex friend . . ." He sighed. "I don't know which exactly." The unrelenting ache tugged at his chest and he added, more to himself than Meg, "drives me nuts."

She settled back in her seat and the corners of her lips curled with a knowing little smile. "Ah, well, we _all_have one of those," she assured him sympathetically.

.

_**Burkitsville, Orchard Road.  
**_

Dean swerved, startled by the sudden squawking of a canary on steroids. "What the hell?" He glanced at the back seat and saw the EMF monitor flashing excitedly. When he pulled over and checked the gauge the needle was dancing in the red zone. The hot spot appeared to be just ahead, in the orchard that bordered the road. Oh, yeah. Definitely a hub of sinister activity. That was one mean looking orchard. Just look at those big ol' scary barrels of apples. Dean blew out a little skeptical raspberry. All the same he got out of the car and walked over to investigate.

He had to concede he felt a distinct drop in temperature as he crossed under the arch that marked the entrance to the wood. And, come to think of it, it was kind of bleak and empty and desolate looking. And it struck him there was something else wrong with this picture but he couldn't put his finger on what was giving him the crawlies. He hesitated at the border of the orchard, feeling he should investigate more, but oddly reluctant to venture further into the spooky place without the muscular and well informed support of his erstwhile companion. But he could see something like a house in the distance, in the direction the eager canary was insisting he should take, so he hummed a few bars of Metallica and put his best foot forward.

He'd barely taken a step when he heard the sound of a car drawing up in the road behind him, and when he turned he saw the sheriff getting out and heading toward him.

_Uh oh._

"Can I help you, sir?" he asked as he approached.

Dean quickly shut off the manic monitor and stuffed it into his pocket. "Ah . . . yes. I'm sure you can, Officer. I was after directions to the interstate. Am I on the right road?"

"Absolutely," the sheriff assured him. "Just keep right on going. The turn off is at the end of the road."

Dean grinned broadly. "That's great."

The sheriff grinned right back at him. And waited.

Dean cleared his throat. "Right, well ah . . . Great. I'll be on my way, then." Dean glanced back at the orchard and suddenly it hit him. The leaves! All over the ground, like Autumn, except it was the middle of April. "Say, is there something wrong with the trees here? I noticed all the dead leaves – "

"We had a storm a few days ago. Bad storm. Blew them all down."

"Uh-huh," Dean responded doubtfully. He looked up at the threatening sky. It had been pissing down on and off ever since he'd entered the town. "Well, that's global warming for you, I guess," he suggested.

The sheriff didn't look impressed. "Just keep right on going," he reiterated, only somehow it sounded more like an instruction than a direction this time.

Dean opted for valorous discretion and returned to the Impala, giving the sheriff one last cheery wave before driving off up the road. The orchard could wait. Right now he was curious to find out what the sheriff had done with the girl from the café.

He didn't have to wait long for an answer. Just beyond the limits of Burkitsville he saw her by the roadside, jaw set determinedly, arms folded across her body, striding purposefully back in the direction of the town. He pulled over and wound down the passenger window.

"Hey, do you need some help?" he called to her.

She approached the car eagerly but when she saw Dean's face she pulled up short. "Oh, you again," she said doubtfully.

Dean caught sight of his own reflection in the rearview mirror and he could kind of understand her hesitation. Unkempt, unwashed and fresh from a fight, he looked the worst kind of trouble.

"Hey, I know I'm not looking my best," he admitted. "I'm having a bad day, too, you know?"

She studied him with shrewd eyes, assessing.

"So what happened here?" Dean asked. "Did the sheriff just drive you out of town and dump you by the road?"

"Yeah," she confirmed. "Nice people, huh?"

"What did you do to piss them off?"

She shrugged. "Just asked the wrong questions, I guess." She seemed to come to a decision. "Look, can you give me a lift back into town?"

"Well, I could," Dean acknowledged. "But won't they just drive you straight back out again?"

"I need to get back," she insisted. "That young couple are in danger."

"Yes, I heard you say. What makes you so sure?"

She sighed and shook her head. "This is going to sound crazy."

Dean opened the passenger door and invited her to take a seat. "Try me," he told her. "I've got a high tolerance level on crazy."

After a moment's hesitation she took off her backpack and dropped onto the seat beside Dean. She hunted briefly through her bag then drew out more flyers like the ones she'd posted about the town.

"Vince and Holly Parker were on a road trip. When they last called home they were headed to Indiana," She spread the pages out on the seat and Dean saw that there were three different couples from different towns, in Washington, New York and Colorado. "Each of these couples took a road trip cross-country," she continued. "None of them arrived at their destination, and none of them were ever heard from again."

"Well, it's a big country," Dean pointed out. "They could've disappeared anywhere. "

"Yeah, could've," she acknowledged. "But each one's route took them through the same part of Indiana. Always on the second week of April. One year after another after another."

"This is the second week of April," Dean noted, somewhat redundantly.

"Yep," she agreed. "And now there's a young couple back there getting the red carpet treatment while the rest of us losers are getting broomed as fast as possible. Is it me, or do you see a relationship here?"

A thought occurred to Dean. "Are . . . are you a hunter?" he asked her.

She blinked. "I used to go out sea fishing with my brother sometimes . . ." she offered doubtfully, then frowned and cocked her head questioningly.

"I . . . never mind. It doesn't matter," Dean assured her. He looked down at the flyers. "It's just . . . I can't imagine how you put together a pattern like this . . ."

"I was motivated," she explained. "Vince Parker was my brother." She turned her lamplight eyes on Dean. "Do you know what it's like to lose family?"

Dean didn't answer. He dropped his gaze back to the flyers and swallowed. Once more he was filled with the heavy conviction that he just wasn't doing enough to find Dad. Meanwhile, this girl, this civilian, had been doing her research.

"The towns around here," she was saying, "people are losing their homes, their farms. But here, it's almost like they're protected. I can't put my finger on it, but I can feel it . . . in my gut, you know? There's something unnatural about it."

"Have you seen the orchard?" he asked her.

"All the fallen leaves? Yeah. The trees are dying."

"Maybe the town's losing its luck."

She took a deep breath. "Well, that's the crazy part. I think there's a connection between the couples and the luck."

Dean reflected on things he'd read in Sam's journal, on annual cycles and pagan gods. "It may not be as crazy as it sounds," he commented. "You know what . . . ah . . ." Dean gleaned the young woman's name from an identity necklace she was wearing. "Gemma?"

She nodded.

"Dean." He shook her hand. "I'd like to take another look at that orchard."

.

Dean parked at the entrance to the orchard and when he took tweetie-pie out of his pocket it went nuts.

"What is that?" Gemma asked.

"Measures electro-magnetic frequencies," Dean replied.

She blinked. From her expression it looked like she was starting to wonder what she'd hooked up with, but she simply asked "so, what's causing that?"

Dean felt a painful tug in his insides as he thought of a conversation he'd had with Sam, so long ago now. "Nothing natural," he replied, ruefully. "I think you'd better stay here," he told her. "I don't know what we're going to find in there."

Her jaw set and she poked at the inside of her cheek with her tongue. "Oh, and I'm the helpess female who needs protecting, am I? Guess again."

Dean hesitated, but he understood where she was coming from, the need to be involved, doing something. Opening the glove compartment he pulled out his gun and checked the safety before shoving it down the back of his jeans.

"O.K. but stay behind me," he insisted.

She raised her eyebrows at the sight of the weapon but said nothing, and she followed Dean into the wood.

The monitor wasn't a lot of help as they entered the orchard; the readings were all over the place. Dean pocketed the instrument and headed toward the house he'd seen earlier, but half way in he got a weird feeling that the house wasn't the issue. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and something drew his gaze off to the side, then he startled as he noticed someone standing amongst the trees.

"Guh!"

Gemma gave him a quizzical look and he realised the figure wasn't so much standing as hanging.

"Sorry . . . took me by . . ." he tried to explain.

"It's a scarecrow," she said, flatly.

"Yeah," he acknowledged. _Great. Real brave and manly, there, Deano. Real confidence inspiring._ "If I only had a brain, huh?" he quipped awkwardly.

She rolled her eyes and returned her gaze to the scarecrow, and Dean did the same. After a moment their eyes met again and Dean knew they were both thinking the same thing. They turned toward it and the closer they got to it, the more creeped-out Dean felt. That was one weird, fugly scarecrow. It reminded him of _Friday the 13__th_, or _Halloween,_ or even _Frankenstein_ the way it was all stitched together. No stuffed sacking for the head, no buttons for eyes, but a grisly simulacrum of a human face with dark empty sockets that convinced you they might once have housed a human soul. As he stood beneath it Dean felt his blood chill.

For several moments Gemma was as still as he was but then, with a sudden agitated motion, she stepped forward, grasped the thing's arm and turned it. Dean glimpsed markings there before Gemma turned and fairly bolted out of the orchard, back to the car.

Dean wavered, head swiveling rapidly between the scarecrow and Gemma's retreating form, before he stepped up and checked the design of the markings. It looked familiar. Hastily, he fished in his pocket for the flyer Gemma had left on the Impala's windscreen and it confirmed his misgivings: Vince Parker had a tattoo of the same design.

When he reached the car he found Gemma propped against the fender, emptying her stomach onto the grass verge. He held her, supporting her shoulders, until she was done and then pulled her into his arms.

"That's him!" she gasped. "That's _my brother_."

"I think it's a lot of people," Dean murmured, not sure if the observation made it better or worse. He felt bad that he hadn't _insisted_ she stayed in the car. He might have spared her this discovery.

She pushed away from him and stepped back, wiping the residue of vomit from her lips. "What the _fuck_ is going on here?" she cried. "What kind of monsters _are _these people?" Without waiting for an answer she got into the Impala and slammed the door. After a moment's hesitation Dean crossed to the driver's side and climbed in beside her.

"We go back into town, and we get that couple out," she said, voice low and quivering. She stared ahead of her, dry-eyed and stony-faced, running on rage Dean guessed. "We can stop it happening again."


	7. Scene 6

"_Because_ . . ." Dean struggled to formulate his argument. "In the first place, they probably wouldn't believe us. They'd probably just think we were a pair of nut jobs. And in the second place, it isn't just about saving _them_. It's about finding out what's going on, who's involved, putting a stop to it . . . so it doesn't happen to another couple, and another and another. We have to be smart about it. We can't take on the whole town."

"Well, aren't _you_ just the voice of reason," Gemma remarked, her jaw clenched stubbornly.

_Well, one of us has to be,_ Dean thought.

"Look, I need you to stay here, watch the brake shop and stay out of sight while I keep an eye on the couple. They can't find out we're together. Can I trust you not to rush out and do something stupid?"

It was a poor choice of words and it drew an angry flash from the green lamplights.

"Can I trust you, Gemma?" he repeated firmly.

She stared hotly at him but presently she appeared to calm down and her gaze turned quizzical. "Who are you, Dean?" she asked.

"What?"

"It's just . . . you act like you know what you're doing," she observed.

Dean blinked. His lips softened and parted in surprise, then twitched into an evasive smile. "Yeah, well, there's a reason for that," he told her.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm a good actor." He got out of the car quickly, walked a few paces and glanced back. With a sharp wave of the hand he reminded her to get out of sight and her head disappeared below the window. Parked in a little used back alley across from Jorgeson Motors, she should be fine if she didn't draw attention to herself.

Dean's plan was to discreetly trail the young couple while they window shopped the souvenir stores round town until he found out exactly what the townspeople had planned for them . . . meanwhile trying_ not_ to telegraph to everyone in a 50 mile radius that he was white knuckling it.

Only last night he'd been running scared from everything supernatural – Sam included – and now he was up to his ass in it and he didn't even have Sam to turn to for support and guidance. Added to that, he had an emotionally volatile civilian in tow, and _yeah_, the irony of that was not lost on him. Karma's a bitch, right?

He thought of calling Sam. Chances are if Dean told him something funky was going down in lil ol' Burkitsville, he'd come running. When did Sam ever turn his back on a mission? But by the time he got here it would be too late to help the couple; it was almost sundown now. Besides, Sam deserved his chance to get out of the life, like he'd wanted to before, and Dean didn't want to be the little boy who cried "case!" Maybe this was Dean's opportunity to prove to Sam that he wasn't fucking helpless after all.

Everyone was really friendly to the newlyweds, wherever they went. The couple that ran the brake shop and general store was particularly sweet and pleasant. By contrast, most people (including the honeymooners themselves) ignored Dean, but that suited his purposes. Running into the sheriff in Jorgeson's store was a wrinkle Dean could have done without.

"Thought you were headed for the interstate," he remarked.

"Yeah, you know, I _was_," Dean replied. "But then I realized I was low on gas, and I thought I might as well get a few supplies in while I was here."

The sheriff eyed Dean's purchases curiously. Doubtless a packet of twinkies, a can of hair mousse and a jumbo packet of salt looked like an odd combination. Dean flashed a broad grin and headed outside with his acquisitions.

It was already getting dark as old man Jorgeson was filling up the gas tank on the young couple's car and giving directions to the interstate.

"Take Laskey straight out of town," he told them. "And then you're going to turn right on Orchard Road."

And there was just something in the timbre of his voice as he said it. Dean _knew_.

Dean turned and walked away, from the store and the brake shop, from the couple, the Jorgesons and the sheriff, and made his way to the Impala by a back route. Opening the trunk he grabbed a shotgun, probably the best all purpose weapon he had left. What he wouldn't give for some of Sam's salt ammo right now. Then his eyes fell on a box of iron rounds he'd apparently missed when he cleared out the trunk. _Thank the gods!_ . . . or not, if his theory was right.

Gemma appeared at his side. "What's happening?" she demanded.

"Get back in the car," Dean told her. "We gotta go. They're sending them to the orchard."

They got there just behind the couple, and it looked like the honeymooners' car had broken down right on cue.

"Stay here," Dean told Gemma.

"What are you – "

"I said _stay here!_"

It was full on dark when he entered the orchard and he couldn't see the couple, but he had a pretty good idea where they'd be headed, so he struck out in the same direction he'd taken in the afternoon. His breath was coming out in an icy fog. With every step the biting cold pierced deeper into his muscles, and the trees themselves seemed to menace his movements. Then he heard the sounds of running and shrieking and he met the young couple racing back toward him. Off its cross, and scant yards behind them, was the dark lumbering form of the scarecrow – and from the way it was brandishing its wickedly curling scythe, it meant business.

Dean swallowed. "Get back to your car!" he yelled. "Go! Go!"

As the couple ran past him he raised the gun and fired, hit the scarecrow square in the chest and it barely slowed it down, but it was enough to gain the couple a head start. He turned and ran, turned and fired, ran and fired twice more and the creature was gaining on him the whole time. His lungs were burning from a mixture of fear and exertion and the smell of burned gunpowder. Then his foot jarred on a tree root and he stumbled. He could hear the scarecrow's predatory rasp coming up on him, sensed the arm being raised behind him, imagined he saw the sharp glint of the scythe, and then a hand clamped on his shoulder. He heard the report of another gun just as he found his feet again, and stared into Gemma's face.

"Go! Go! Go!" he yelled. She released his shoulder and they bolted for the exit. Once through it Dean turned once more and raised the shotgun, but the scarecrow had disappeared. He stared back into the apparently empty orchard.

"What the hell _was_ that?" the husband cried.

"Don't ask," Dean replied, shaken and panting. But he was sure now, and everyone was safe, and Dean had managed to keep control of his bladder, so he'd call that a win.

Thanks to Gemma.

.

_**Bus Station Diner**_

"So I got away from my family but then, straight away, I got into this . . . irrationally co-dependent relationship with this guy who was just . . . wrong for me, in every conceivable way, you know? I mean, I know opposites are supposed to attract, but you've got to have _something_ in common for it to work, right?"

Meg dipped a nacho into the sauce and slid it into her mouth. At one time it might not have occurred to Sam to share his meal with her, wouldn't have considered her his responsibility. But she'd blown all the money she'd had on her ticket to Madison, so it was either this or she didn't eat, and Sam knew _Dean_ wouldn't have let a penniless girl go hungry if he could help it, so, here he was, sharing a plate of nachos with a complete stranger. Apparently that meant having to listen to her life story as well. No good deed goes unpunished. So Sam smiled and nodded, and wore the 'sympathetic, understanding' face he generally reserved for sensitive witnesses. Not that he couldn't empathize. Some of the things she was saying sounded like very familiar territory for him.

"He was kind of too much for me, you know? He was like . . . this force of nature. He just swept into my life like a hurricane and changed everything. _Changed me_. My clothes, the way I did my hair. It's like, the way I did everything was wrong. He'd have this way of clearing his throat sometimes when I did something he didn't approve of, and I swear I could hear it when he wasn't even there."

Sam laughed and ducked his head. He could feel himself blushing a little. _Very_ familiar.

"I'm sorry," she said when she saw she was embarrassing him. "The things you say to people you hardly know." She laughed softly and looked bashfully down at her plate.

"No, no. It's O.K," Sam assured her. "I know how you feel."

She raised her head and studied him with wide, intent eyes.

"You remember that friend I mentioned before that I was road tripping with? It's er . . . it's kind of the same deal." He tried to think of something trivial he could share back to put her at her ease. "There was this thing he did all the time, drove me nuts. He's like this trivia buff . . . and he'd come out with this stuff all the time, stuff that didn't matter at all, but when I didn't know what he was talking about, he'd look at me like I was from another planet."

"Like you were some kind of freak?" she suggested.

"_Exactly_." And they laughed. But Sam felt bad suddenly, like he'd been lured into saying something mean, not just trivial but petty.

"The thing is, he couldn't just accept me the way I was, you know?" she continued, suddenly serious. "Don't get me wrong; I really loved him, and I'd have done anything to make him happy but . . . that was kind of the problem. I was afraid of what he was going to make me into? What we were going to do to each other . . . because I wasn't good for him either. And it was only going to get worse." She rolled her shoulders and stared into the beer Sam had bought her. "We were from two totally different worlds. There was no way we could ever really understand each other. And the more he learned about me, the more he was gonna see that he wouldn't like." She took a mouthful of beer and was silent for a moment then she lifted her dark eyes and smiled sadly. "So, I just went on my own way instead."


	8. Scene 7

_**A motel outside Burkitsville**_

Dean checked the weapons and the ammo, closed the cache, closed the trunk, and locked it this time. A bright flash caught his attention and he turned his gaze toward Burkitsville where dark clouds hung threateningly over the town. An ominous rumble followed moments later. As he returned to the motel room he checked his cell phone. No messages. He wasn't expecting any. Not really.

He checked his wallet, too. Counted the cash he had left and grimaced. He'd let Gemma wash up first since she was oily from fixing the honeymooners car, then he'd given her some money to get something from the motel diner while he cleaned himself up. What with that and the cost of the motel room, his winnings from the previous night were dwindling fast. He was beginning to understand why Sam was always so frugal with their cash. Still, he was feeling a little more human now he'd had a chance to shower and change.

He picked up the salt from the table and turned toward the door. He was right next to it when he was startled by a loud rap.

"Gemma?" he called.

"No, it's little Bo Peep," she replied.

He opened the door and she eyed the carton of salt curiously as she walked through. "I take mine without," she quipped, indicating the fries.

"It's for protection," he explained. "Salt is a symbol of purity . . . never mind," he concluded as she started giving him the 'nut job' look.

She regarded him appraisingly as she dropped the burgers and a six pack onto the table. "Well, you don't scrub up so bad after all, do you?" she remarked. "Pity about the shiner. How did you get it?"

Dean shrugged, embarrassed. "Bar fight," he confessed.

She looked unimpressed. "I thought at least you were going to tell me you got it battling vampires or werewolves or something."

"Only on Tuesdays," he assured her, with an awkward grin. Then he noticed she'd missed a patch of oil on her face.

"Ah . . . you've, er . . ." Dean indicated her ear.

She wiped at it, missed, so Dean took out his handkerchief and gently wiped it clean for her. She was looking pretty good, too. She'd taken her hair out if its band while she was cleaning up and she was Scarlett Johannson hot with it down, but even as the thought crossed Dean's mind she was already pulling it back into the pony tail again.

"Suits you better down," Dean suggested.

"So, who are you? _Queer Eye for the Straight Girl?_"

Dean frowned. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

She raised her eyebrows. "It means I don't need fashion tips, Touchy."

"Well . . . _you're_ touchy, Touchy," he retorted, just a tad sulkily.

"By the way, here's your change." She handed him a bunch of notes and some coins. It was more than he'd expected and she must have seen that in his face. "I paid for _myself_, Dean. This isn't a date."

"Well, I know it – " Dean began, affronted, then colored a little as he realized she was just riding him. _Damn_, he was out of practice.

She dropped into a chair at the table and started unwrapping her burger and he took a seat opposite. "So, you know about cars, you know how to use a shotgun," he said, changing the subject. "Where d'you learn all that stuff?"

"From my brother."

"Oh."

"He also taught me how to punch, and where to kick guys. He taught me how to take care of myself," In a lower voice she added, "and I never thanked him for any of it."

"Were you taking care of yourself back at the orchard?" Dean demanded. "You could have gotten yourself killed. I told you to stay in the car. I didn't say you could help yourself to my weapons, either."

Her mouth dropped open and she gave a little scoff of indignation. "You should be kissing my ass, you were dead meat!"

Dean bridled. "I'd've got away," he insisted. Again with the sulky.

She made another noise that implied skepticism, then she reached for the barbecue sauce and started dipping her fries. "So when are you gonna stop holding out on me, Dean?" she asked.

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

**"**You knew what that thing was back there, or you had some idea. Plus you've got a small armory in your trunk and you're protecting yourself with condiments. So are you gonna level with me now?"

"I'm not holding out," he assured her. "It's just . . . if I'd suggested this afternoon that we might be dealing with a pagan god, you'd have thought I was nine kinds of crazy, right?"

Her eyes widened. "Maybe I do _now_!"

"Well, what do _you_ think was animating that scarecrow?"

She was silent for a few moments. "All right," she conceded. "I suppose I thought it must be possessed by something; maybe an evil spirit of some kind . . . but a _god_?"

"They're just spirits with bigger egos."

"What makes you so sure that's what it is?"

"The annual cycle of its killings," Dean reached for his laptop, booted it up and started hunting for sites he'd bookmarked while he'd been researching Sam's journal, "and the fact that the victims are always a man and a woman, like some kind of fertility rite. And you saw the way the locals treated that couple, fattening them up like a Christmas turkey."

She nodded thoughtfully. "The last meal given to sacrificial victims."

"Yeah, I'm thinking a ritual sacrifice to appease the god."

"So, a pagan god possesses the scarecrow . . ."

"And the scarecrow takes its sacrifice. And, for another year, the crops won't wilt and disease won't spread." Dean found a relevant site and turned the laptop toward Gemma.

"And Burkitsville lives off its apple pies . . . and the blood of those young victims. It's vampiric." She wore an expression of distaste. "So, how do we put a stop to it?"

Dean cracked a beer and took a swig while he took back the laptop. He opened a search engine. Now, this was the part _Sam_ would have been really good at. "Working on it," he said, and took a bite of his burger.

"And your bonus question . . ." Gemma prompted as she watched him surf, "Where did _you_ learn all this stuff?"

"I'm a hunter," Dean responded without thinking then hesitated. "Used to be," he corrected. "I was learning . . ." he started to correct the correction then decided to cut the Gordian Knot. "For the last six months I've been hanging with a guy who's spent his whole life hunting supernatural . . . things. Things like this." Dean exhaled a small, rueful laugh. "Taught me everything I know."

"So, where is he right now?" she asked. "Strikes me he'd be useful to have around."

"I don't know exactly." Dean passed a hand round the back of his neck. Concentrated hard on the laptop screen.

"You can't call him?"

"We had a falling out," he mumbled. He could feel himself coloring slightly.

She got that look on her face women get sometimes when they're reading you're mind. 'Cause they do that, you know. Women. Some women. They freaking read your mind.

"I see. So this is a male pride thing, is it?"

_No - o. _O.K. maybe it _was_ exactly that, but a little more confidence in him might have been nice. He figured out the pagan god thing by himself, didn't he?

"_Yahtzee!_" Saved by the bell. Or by the browser, anyway. "There's a professor at a community college just two towns over who's written research papers on mythology and folklore. I'll bet he can help. He'll know the local history as well."

Gemma watched as he dashed off an email to the professor, gave him some shit about being a postgrad doing a paper.

"So . . . this friend of yours . . ." she persisted. "_Just_ a friend, is he?"

Dean blinked. First Sasha, now Gemma. What? Was it fucking pasted on his forehead? "_Yeah!_" It came out with a defensive squeak so he tried to pitch his voice down, make it more gruff sounding. "Why?"

She shrugged. "Just, back at the café, you had that 'just been dumped by my girlfriend' look. I _assumed_ it was a girlfriend."

Dean bristled. "He didn't _dump_ me."

She raised her eyebrows and cocked her head to one side. "Oh, _you_ left _him_?"

Dean swallowed, toyed with the laptop. "It was a misunderstanding."

"Then why can't you call him? Straighten it out?"

"I _did_. O.K? Left him a message earlier and he hasn't exactly hurried to call back. Besides, he sent me a text this morning made it pretty clear he wasn't interested in patching things up. Guess he doesn't think there's anything more to say."

"Oh," she mouthed, comprehending. There was silence for a few moments and then she added "Word to the wise, Dean: if you're going to pull the 'dramatic exit scene' you should make sure the other guy has more to lose than you do."

_Fuck! _That was pretty cynical! "It wasn't like that!" Dean insisted. _Not really_.

She picked up her beer and took another mouthful. "What was it like, then?"

Dean frowned and stared unseeingly at the laptop. Self analysis wasn't his strong suit at the best of times, and this was complicated shit. "Well . . ." he took a quick deep breath and let it out again. "I won't bore you with the details, but a few months back my life was royally boned, and ever since then it's been like I've been living in a freaking Stephen King novel. And Sam's all mixed up with that." Dean took a long pull on his beer before continuing. "It's not his fault. Thunder comes with the storm. It's not the cause of it." It occurred to Dean he should make a note of that. There was a good line in there somewhere. "But shit happened between us the other night and . . . I dunno . . . just for a while there I couldn't tell the difference. And I wasn't really thinking but . . . maybe I had an idea in my head that if I could get away from him I could get away from all of it. Just . . . get a normal life back. But I can't. I know that now. Sam just opened my eyes so I can see it. And it's everywhere. There's nowhere to run to." Dean swallowed. "And running was never the answer, anyway."

He looked up. Gemma's expression was hard to read. He wasn't sure how much of his reverie she'd actually _got_. In the end he'd been talking more to himself than to her.

"Do you miss him?" she asked.

Dean uttered a painful, breathy laugh. _Typical woman_._ Straight to the bone_. "Yeah," he admitted. "Yeah, I do."

"Then _tell_ him," she said. "Call him, and tell him. What have you got to lose?"

_Again. Typical woman_._ They always think it's that simple_._ They always think talking'll solve everything_.

She leaned back in her chair and studied him for a moment then she seemed to come to some sort of decision and leaned forward again.

"When my brother first met his fiancée, I felt threatened," she confided. "I felt like he didn't need me any more. I was afraid I was going to lose him. We had this big row and I stormed off, determined to prove to myself I could get by without him." She paused and emptied the last of her beer down her throat. "That was the last time I saw him." She stood up and picked up her backpack. "Call your friend, Dean. Life's too short for egos." She turned toward the door. "Do you mind if I crash in the back of your car?"

Dean stood up. "Wait – what . . . ? I thought you were going to sleep here."

She raised her eyebrows.

"No! I'm not . . . I mean, there's _two_ beds . . ." he added hurriedly. "Everybody keeps their clothes on . . . It's just practical . . ."

She laughed and shook her head. "It isn't that I don't trust you, Dean, but I wouldn't feel comfortable sharing a room with a guy I just met."

Dean found himself coloring again. Maybe it had been presumptuous of him not to get two rooms. Maybe in the past six months he'd been roughing it with Sam he'd started to forget certain . . . social niceties.

"Well, then _I'll_ sleep in the car," he insisted.

"Look at you, being all chivalrous. It's adorable." Her lips quirked into a smile. "You paid for the room, Dean; you sleep in it. I'll be fine." She hoisted her backpack and opened the door. "Believe me. I've spent the night in worse places." And with that she left and closed the door between them.

God, the room felt empty once she'd gone. Another motel room. Another fricking partition. Pear shapes this time. Or something. Fuck knows. Another pair of queen beds. But tonight he was on his own.

He sat down and finished his beer. There were fries left, but they were cold so he threw them away with the rest of the litter from the meal. Then the salt caught his attention and he figured he'd better take care of that before he went to bed. He put a line round the door and across all the windows, and as he got to the last window his attention was arrested by a viciously jagged spear of light forking through the sky over Burkitsville, so sharp it fritzed the lights for a moment. It was followed by a loud crack and rumble of thunder. The god was angry.

He replaced the salt, picked up his guitar and sat down on the bed with it. For a while he just sat idly strumming chords while he played rhyming couplets through his head, then he started humming snatches of lyric.

" . . . _where you're born_ . . ."

" . . . _where you're from_ . . ."

"_Doesn't matter to me where you're from.  
__When did the thunder ever choose the storm?_"

_Ugh._ Needed work. He sat hugging the guitar for a while, thinking about what Gemma had said. Then he reached for his jacket and pulled out his cell.

It was dead.

_Crap! _He hadn't even noticed the battery was getting low. Maybe the storm knocked it out. Whatever. Didn't matter, 'cause, _guess_ who still had the charger. Dean dropped his head against the phone and screwed his eyes closed, suddenly feeling more alone than ever. Just the thought of maybe never seeing Sam again turned his insides cold.

He stayed curled like that for a while then he stuffed the phone back in his jacket pocket and tossed the kit 'n caboodle on the other bed. He went round the room switching off the lights before dropping down on his own bed fully clothed. He didn't even bother getting under the covers. In the darkness he reached up and clutched at the pillow then, slowly, he began to drag it down until it was beside him, nuzzling his face against it and holding it close. So it was babyish. He didn't care. Not like there was anyone there to see.

.


	9. Scene 8

God knows what time he got to sleep but he was late waking up the next day. He was roused by Gemma hammering on the door.

"Dean! Are you awake? The day's wasting here!"

Dean sat up, wiped his eyes and punched on the radio. "Yeah, yeah! I'm awake. I'm up!" he told her. It was true by the time he'd finished saying it.

"I'm going to the diner. Do you want anything?"

"Um, yeah, I'll have a half-caf . . . ah . . . just a black coffee, thanks."

The room was like an ice box, and the surly two-bar electric heater on the wall made little impression on it. Dean didn't really know what was normal for this time of year this far north but it felt freaking cold to him as he shivered in the bathroom, and he wondered if the chill was spreading out from Burkitsville. The amulet seemed even colder than the room temperature, and no matter how much he rubbed it between his palms it wouldn't warm up. In the end he wore it over his undershirt because he couldn't bear the feel of it against his chest.

After he'd washed up he gave up on the heater and slipped into his jacket instead. He automatically felt in his pocket for his cell and took it out to check for messages, remembered it was dead. The coldness of the room seemed to seep right into him, and the song issuing from the radio wasn't doing anything to lift his spirits, either.

_All the time I'm wasting, all the dreams I'm chasing  
__are leaving me behind.  
__All the roads I'm facing, all the days erasing  
__well I just about lose my mind.  
__I woke up this morning, the idea was forming  
__that I'm always on the losing side._

He turned it off and booted up the laptop. At least his email was more encouraging: he'd had a reply from the professor letting Dean know he'd be available to see him that morning. Dean was just powering down the computer when Gemma knocked again. He told her the news when he opened the door and she was more than pleased to hear it.

"Great. You're ready to go, then?" she asked, noticing his jacket.

"You don't want to come in and use the bathroom or anything first?"

"I cleaned up in the diner bathroom," she said, already heading back toward the Impala. "Let's just go."

_Motivated_, Dean thought as he closed the motel door and fell in beside her, but he was as glad to be outside where the pale morning sun was at least trying to impart a little warmth. As he climbed behind the wheel Gemma handed him his coffee. He took a sip and tried not to pull a face as the bitter, oily brew coated his tongue. Its only redeeming feature was that it was hot but, somehow, he just didn't think a half-caf vanilla latte would have helped his cred.

.

The professor was a pleasant seeming old gentleman. He had a rumpled, unmade bed look about him and a chesty cough, legacy of a three pack a day habit that he must have kicked at some point since Dean couldn't smell the smoke on him any more. As Dean had hoped, he was familiar with the history of the surrounding towns and was able to inform Dean that the townsfolk of Burkitsville were of Scandinavian stock. He invited Dean down to his office and took out a book on Norse mythology from his personal library. It was the biggest damned book Dean had ever seen. Even Dean thought it was pretty cool; Sam would have drooled over it. It smelled musty with age and was full of gruesome medieval illustrations. There was a particularly grisly pictorial of a guy being crucified upside down. Somehow it made Dean think of the Hanged Man from tarot cards. Then he lighted on a picture of something that looked like a scarecrow in a field, surrounded by villagers and farmers. Turned out to be an effigy of something called a _Vanir._

"They're Norse gods of protection and prosperity," Dean explained to Gemma afterwards as they caught a late breakfast in the cafeteria. "The book talked about them keeping the local settlements safe from harm. The villagers built effigies in their fields and practiced human sacrifice: one male, and one female. Sounds familiar, huh? This particular Vanir's energy sprung from a sacred tree."

"So what would happen if the sacred tree was torched? You think it'd kill the god?" she asked.

Dean grinned. "You took the words right out of my mouth," he said, and swallowed the dregs of a coffee that was barely better than the one from the diner.

Gemma leaned back, pushed her empty plate aside and fixed Dean with an enquiring look. "So, did you call Sam?" she demanded.

He responded with a shake of the head. "My cell's dead," he explained.

"_Really_?" Her tone implied she thought he was making excuses.

"Yeah, _really_," Dean insisted, slightly nettled.

She sighed, pulled out her own cell, keyed in her pin and set the phone down in front of Dean. She stood up. "I'll see you back at the car," she said, and left Dean staring at the phone.

In the cold light of day he wasn't even so sure this was a good idea. If Sam wanted to move on with his life, maybe Dean should just leave him be. Not like Sam had ever asked to get involved with Dean, get sucked up in Dean's life and Dean's problems. He just happened to have been there when the demon was making house calls; just one more monster making reservations for dinner. Then he got swept up in the wake of it just as much as Dean did; the case that never went away. Now he had a chance to walk away, case closed, if Dean would just leave him alone.

Trouble was, Dean felt bad about the way it had been left. One half-assed text didn't make up for that. Sam deserved a real apology from him. Hell, he deserved more than that.

Dean picked up the phone, keyed in Sam's number and held his breath. His heart was punching him from the inside as he listened to the ring tone. It occurred to him that Sam just might not pick up when he saw the strange number. He was just convincing himself that Sam wasn't going to answer when the phone went quiet. Not absolutely silent, though: he could hear muffled sounds in the background, and he thought he could hear breathing, quiet but kinda fast.

"Sam?" It came out kind of raspy and Dean did his best to clear his throat quietly.

"Dean, is that you?"

Dean felt so pathetically pleased to hear Sam's voice he couldn't even answer for a moment.

"Did you change your phone?" Sam prompted.

"Erm . . . no, this isn't mine. My battery died. Gemma let me borrow hers so I could call you."

There was a brief pause then Sam asked "who's Gemma?"

Dean probably imagined there was an edge in Sam's voice, and it was pure fancy to suppose it might be motivated by anything like jealousy. All the same Dean quickly explained about Gemma and her brother, and the town and the couple and the scarecrow. When he'd finished there were several moments of stunned silence before Sam spoke.

"Dean, I don't get it," he said. "What are you doing hunting? I thought you said you wanted a normal life, a _safe_ life!"

"Yeah, well, that was the plan, Sam," Dean acknowledged, "But you know how it is: I saw a monster with a case of the munchies. What was I gonna do? Let the couple die?"

"Well . . . are you O.K? Do you need help? I could – "

"No, I'm fine, Sam. I don't need help." Dean was half elated that Sam had offered, half pissed that he didn't think Dean could manage to burn a tree without his assistance, but mainly he just didn't want to drag Sam into it. "All I have to do is find this sacred tree. It'll be charcoal before you'd even get here."

"What about the scarecrow?"

"Only active after sundown. It's a cake walk, Sam. Don't worry about me."

"Well . . . O.K. But if you need help, all you've gotta do is ask. You know that, right?"

"Thanks, Sam. I appreciate that. Really. But I'm fine." Dean swallowed. "Actually, ahrm . . . I want you to know . . . I mean, don't think . . ."

"Yeah. I'm sorry, Dean. Really sorry. I didn't mean to . . ." His voice dropped. "I mean, I didn't _know_ . . . you know?"

Dean's eyes widened. "Yeah, I know. Forget it." No way he wanted to have _that _conversation over the phone. Or, at all. "I overreacted. Big time. And I said a whole lot of shit to you I didn't mean before I walked out . . . You gotta know I don't blame you 'cause we haven't found Dad, right? That was a dick thing to say after all you've done for me. You've saved my ass more times than I want to think about, and I'm only just beginning to appreciate how much I've learned from you these past few months. And you've been there for me in ways . . . after Mom . . . the fact is, you got me through the worst months of my life and . . . I owe you, Buddy, I – " Dean stopped, reigned himself in. Something too much of this, maybe. "Anyway, the point is, if you ever need anything – " God knows what Sam could ever need from Dean but, Hell, he was gonna say it, anyway. "Whatever. Anything. You just let me know. Ya hear me?"

In the silence that followed the big Meryl Streep speech Dean could feel the blood burning into his cheeks. What the fuck must Sam be thinking right now?

"I don't even know what to say," Sam replied eventually.

_Ye - eah._ _No clues there_. Was now a good time to suggest meeting up for a beer somewhere, or not? Dean took a breath but before he'd formed the sentence in his head a girl's voice interrupted the conversation.

"Sam, get up. We've got to get up, Sam. It's time to go."

Dean's mental gears crashed like a four car pile up. _Sam?_ As quickly as he could manage he hauled a grin onto his face, because don't kid yourself people can't _hear_ whether you're smiling or not.

"Whoa! Sammy, is this a bad time for you?"

"Ah . . . bad time? No . . . it's just . . . I was just – " Sam seemed to be distracted and slightly straining with exertion.

"You sly dog! You should have told me you had company."

"Company?"

Dean wanted to end the call quickly now; the effort of keeping up the hale and hearty routine was too much. "Listen, Sam, I've got to go and gank a god right now, but you take care of yourself, O.K? And don't do anything I wouldn't do." He tried to laugh, but all he could do was wince. He stared blankly at the phone for a while after he'd ended the call. "Guess I was holding him back," he muttered.

He took a few to compose himself then he deleted the call log, closed the cell and headed back to the car. Gemma was waiting for him, leaning against the fender, arms crossed, one ankle hooked over the other. She straightened up and frowned as Dean approached.

"Everything O.K, Dean?" she asked.

He didn't answer, just fumbled for his keys.

"Did you speak to Sam? Are you getting back together?" she pressed.

"He's with a girl," Dean growled.

Her eyes widened and her head jerked back. "Wow! He moved on fast! . . . Sorry, Dean," she added, sympathetically.

"Look, let's be clear," Dean snapped. "Sam and I were never _together_. I made a pass. It went south. We fought. I left. End of. What Sam does is his own business."

She raised her eyebrows. "Well, O.K but . . . still, maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's just a one night stand."

"That's not his style." Or was it? What did Dean know? He'd have said going with a hooker wasn't Sam's style if Sam hadn't told him about it himself. He really only knew Sam when he was hunting, his professional face. He had no way of knowing what Sam might be like if he felt free to do whatever he wanted. Apart from that one oddly uncharacteristic revelation, and a few enigmatic hints about life with his family, Sam had shared very little about himself. In all the time they'd fought shoulder to shoulder Sam had never really opened up to Dean . . . and Dean had just bared his soul like a freaking chick.

"Come on. Let's go," he mumbled.

Gemma stiffened suddenly. "Dean!" she warned, her focus somewhere over his shoulder.

Dean turned. He absorbed just enough detail to recognize the sheriff before the lights went out.

_**.**_

_**A bus bound for Madison**_

Sam struggled with his backpack as he was swept along in the wake of the other passengers boarding the bus. He was stiff from having spent the night on the bus station floor, and he was stunned and reeling from Dean's sudden outpouring. Dean had called him "Buddy", like he still thought of Sam as a friend. People use that word casually sometimes, Sam knew that, but Dean hadn't _sounded_ casual. Now Sam was confused. It had all seemed simple and clear-cut before. They were better apart. Dean was better, safer without Sam. But now Dean was hunting. _By himself_. That had never been part of the plan.

Sam hesitated in the aisle while people buffeted against him trying to get past. Wisconsin could wait another day. It was only a curiosity. People weren't dying . . . but Dean had insisted he didn't want Sam's help, and it sounded straightforward. Dean was probably right: it would all be over by the time Sam got there.

While Sam hesitated the doors of the bus swung closed. It wasn't too late. Sam could call out, hail the driver.

"Sam, are you O.K? Who was that on the phone?"

The engine rumbled to life and the bus lurched forward propelling Sam into his seat next to her. "My friend. The one I told you about," he responded.

"What did he want?"

"Nothing. He's fine." Sam realized he was gripping his thighs tightly, and he forced his fingers to relax. "He's just fine."

And the bus pulled out onto the road, bound for Wisconsin.


	10. Scene 9

_**Burkitsville, the orchard. **_

They weren't taking any chances. The committee was out in force with Scotty and the sheriff securing Dean and the Jorgesons tying Gemma up, and a deputy Dean hadn't even seen before keeping watch in the background. They were smart about it, too. Tied them well apart, their hands up above their heads; secured their feet. Dean had a small knife hidden in one of his boots but he didn't fancy his chances of reaching it. If he took up yoga, maybe . . . and he'd get right on that if he managed to get out of this alive.

Seems the folk were finding it just a little more uncomfortable than sending couples down to the orchard and looking the other way. Kept preaching about responsibility, and the greater good, and quoting lines from _Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan_; talked about sacrifice, which sounded classier than calling it murder Dean guessed.

"I hope your apple pie is fucking worth it!" he yelled after them as they deserted the scene.

"So what's the plan?" Gemma asked in the silence that followed.

"I'm working on it," Dean assured her, in defiance of the sickly helpless feeling that settled in the pit of his stomach as he struggled against the expertly tied bonds.

The silence was deathly, unnatural; not even birdsong. Just once, somewhere above them, Dean thought he heard the flutter of one solitary departing bird.

_**.**_

_**A fuel stop in Illinois.**_

Sam held the phone to his ear and listened to the ring tone, again; heard it cut out and divert to voicemail, again. He closed his cell. He'd heard that woman's voice too many times already and, for some reason - that had nothing to do with the two days (and one night) she'd spent with Dean - it made his blood boil.

He was tired of the sound of Meg's voice, too. At some point in the course of the bus trip he'd lost his ability to empathize with her complaints about her ex. The further he got from Dean the less he cared about anything except his need to know what was going on back in Burkitsville, and his inability to make contact was filling him with frustration and anxiety.

He pushed aside his plate with the uneaten sandwich that sat on it, and took a sip of tepid coffee. He thought he heard a faint sound by his right shoulder, like something flapping in the breeze; it might have been his imagination, but he turned, half expecting to find someone standing behind him. There was no one, but he fancied he felt a touch on his forehead and the next moment his head was filled with a bright blue-white light that faded to leave an impression of woods, trees. The image sharpened, focused, and he found himself in an orchard, looking down on it as if from above. It was as real and immediate as if he was there: he could feel the deathly chill of the place; he could smell damp earth, dead leaves and rotten fruit; and he could see Dean – bound to a tree and struggling.

The vision faded and Sam became conscious of his present surroundings once more, of the rapid, shallow rise and fall of his own chest and the wild racing thump of the heart within it.

_Dean._

Meg lifted her backpack and rose from the table. "Hey," she said. "The bus is getting ready to leave."

Sam shook his head and pulled his own pack over his shoulders. "You'd better get on it," he told her. "I gotta go."

"Go where?"

"Burkitsville. I've been trying to call my friend but I can't get through. I think he might be in trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

Sam shrugged. He couldn't explain about the strange revelation that frightened him almost as much as the scene it had shown him. "I'm sorry. Look, I don't want you to miss the bus."

"But I don't understand. You're running back to the guy, after he walked out on you? You want him to have that kind of power over you?"

Sam didn't have time or patience for this. He didn't know how much time he had, whether he could make it back to Indiana – back to Dean – before the scarecrow took its next victim. "I'm sorry," he repeated brusquely, and turned from her.

He never saw the ugly sulk that settled on her features as he walked away.

_**.**_

_**The orchard, dusk.**_

"You don't have a plan, do you?" Gemma sighed.

"I'm working on it," Dean insisted.

One of Dean's former girlfriends was a yoga teacher. She could sit on the floor, lift up her leg and loop her foot behind her ear. He'd thought about her more in the past few hours than he had done in years. From the position he was tied in Dean couldn't get his feet even close to his hands. He couldn't reach his wrists with his fingers, either.

"I take it Sam was the brains of the outfit."

"He's pretty smart, yeah." All Dean could do was keep working his wrists, hoping to stretch and loosen the rope enough to pull his hands through.

"So that makes you the muscle?"

It wasn't working. His wrists were raw with the effort, his eyes were watering steadily and he'd been chewing his lips for a while to stifle his grunts of pain. "No, Sam was kinda that as well." But now he was losing the circulation in his arms, and his hands and wrists were turning numb, so, silver lining.

"Huh," Gemma grunted. "So, it _was_ a pre-emptive strike, then?"

Dean paused. "What?"

"When you left Sam: get out before he abandoned you first; prove you could manage without him?"

Dean didn't think it was possible that he could feel colder than he already did, but he was wrong. He tried to rationalize that Gemma was just laying her own issues with her brother at his door, but the echo of Daniel Whitman's prophecy crawled into his chest and made a nest there. Not that it would make a damn bit of difference who did or might abandon who if Dean couldn't get them out of the current mess.

"I _told_ you why I left," he snapped. He tugged roughly and unproductively at his bonds and screwed up his eyes in a tight wince as a warm bead of blood trickled down his forearm.

Gemma shrugged. "It just doesn't sound like you think you were contributing very much."

The fantasy of going over to Gemma and giving her a kick motivated Dean to renew his struggles. "I _contribute_," he insisted.

"Yeah?"

"_Yeah_." He racked his brains for an example, and then he remembered the unexpected compliment Sam had paid him back in Texas. "I have great people skills. Haven't you noticed?"

Gemma scoffed. "Well, let me know when you manage to charm your way out of these ropes."

Dean gritted his teeth and bit back an angry retort. He acknowledged that the imminent prospect of being hacked to death so a scarecrow could accessorize with your body parts didn't tend to bring out the best in a person. And he couldn't blame Gemma for being pissed at him. If he'd called Sam the moment he'd realized there was something rotten in downtown Burkitsville they wouldn't be in this mess now. If he hadn't still been sore at Sam, if he hadn't been determined to prove he could solve the case all by himself . . . but that was Dean all over. Always the same mistakes, always with the pride and the obstinacy, never using his head . . . he never learned. And if he only screwed himself in the process then fine, he had it coming, but now he was taking Gemma down with him. Yeah. She had a right to be pissed.

He bit his lip, strained and twisted his wrists once more and felt another trickle of blood run down his arm, and he could taste blood in his mouth now, too.

Then something weird happened. It was like he had a hot flush or something. It started in his chest, a burning sensation right where the amulet rested against his shirt, then it spread its warmth outwards through his whole body. It was over in a moment but it left behind a seemingly unwarranted sense of hope, until he thought he heard something, a voice calling. He thought he recognized it, too, but that was impossible, too damn good to be true. Then he heard it again, closer this time.

"_Dean_?"

"Aah!" Dean gasped. Sam! _Oh, sweet God_! It _was_ Sam! He swallowed; couldn't articulate for a moment. He could have cried. Kind of was. Hopefully it wouldn't show in the dark. "Sam!" he called. "Over here!"

"Dean!" Sam appeared at his side. He already had a Swiss army in his hand and he lost no time cutting through the ropes tying Dean to the tree.

"Oh! Oh, I take everything back I said," Dean gasped. "I'm _so_ happy to see you. How'd you get here?"

"I, er . . ." Sam hesitated. "I stole a car."

He seemed oddly embarrassed to admit it, and Dean wondered if he was thinking about Dean's shot about Sam stealing Dad's guns. Hell, if they could just get out of this alive, Dean'd trade his _guitar_ for a chance to make it up to Sam for all the dick things he'd said that night. "Keep an eye on that scarecrow," he warned Sam. "He could come alive any minute."

"Where is it?"

Dean turned and looked behind him. The scarecrow wasn't there; the cross stood empty. "Crap! Move it, Sam!" he cried.

Sam sliced through the ropes that tied Dean's feet then turned to Gemma, and once she was free Dean helped her to her feet.

"All right, now, this sacred tree, the source of its power," she said. "Let's find it and burn it."

"Nah, in the morning. Let's just shag ass before Leather Face catches up."

He took Gemma's elbow and steered her toward the exit but as they moved into a clearing Dean was grabbed from behind and they were flanked by a gauntlet of shotguns. Seems the freak committee had posted a guard, and now they were all here.

"'Fraid we can't let you go, folks," Scotty advised them.

"It'll be over quickly," Jorgeson promised. "You have to let him take you. You have to – "

But Gemma had other ideas. In a sudden flash of movement she had his gun out of his hands and smashed the butt into his face. He went down like a tenpin and Gemma grabbed his screaming wife. Everyone else was stunned until Sam moved to take advantage of the moment, snapping a kick into the sheriff's balls, disarming him and swinging the shotgun into Scotty's temple with the same smooth motion. The surprised deputy had loosened his grip on Dean's arms so Dean drove his elbow back into the man's gut, but as another blow sent the guy to the ground Dean saw the sheriff was recovering. Sam was finishing off a third guy when the sheriff pulled out his sidearm and trained it on Sam's back. In a breath Dean was between them. He had the sheriff's wrist in his hand, trained the gun down and to the side and it discharged into the ground just as Dean brought his leg up. He heard the crack of the elbow joint as it broke over his knee. The sheriff dropped to the ground with a scream and Dean took the gun from his hand and aimed into his face. The man's eyes widened with terror as Dean's finger curled and twitched around the trigger.

"Stay down, Pal," Dean breathed.

The timbre of Ma Jorgeson's shrieks changed suddenly and everyone looked round to see her being carried off by the scarecrow. Her husband's body dragged along the ground beside them, impaled on the scarecrow's sickle. When Dean looked back the sheriff had scrambled to his feet and was making a run for it while the remainder of the posse was fleeing in all directions. Sam and Dean exchanged glances. Running seemed to be a good move, so Dean grabbed Gemma and they made for the exit. Outside the border of the orchard they turned and stared back into the trees. After the rush of activity all now seemed disturbingly quiet and still.

Gemma turned and stared at a car that was parked haphazardly adjacent the orchard. "That yours?" she asked, addressing Sam.

"Well . . ." he prevaricated.

"Got any gasoline?" she demanded.

Dean let out a breath of exasperation. "Not now, Gemma," he said. "In the morning."

But she was already moving toward the car. "I want it over _now_," she insisted. "Tomorrow the townsfolk could come back in force and try to stop us." Opening the trunk she quickly found a container filled with gasoline. Dean tried to head her off as she marched toward the orchard but she dodged past him and headed into the trees.

"Oh, you've got to be fricking kidding me," he muttered.

"Is she always like this?" Sam asked.

Dean rolled his eyes and they followed her into the orchard, recently acquired weapons at the ready. Fortunately they found the tree quickly. Dean had an idea it would be close to the cross where the scarecrow could guard it, and his hunch proved correct. They found it dead ahead of the cross, a real old tree with markings Sam assured them were Nordic runes. _Nerd._

Sam and Dean kept watch while Gemma poured the fuel over the tree and set light to a branch that lay nearby. Presumably the scarecrow was busy . . . doing something unthinkable with the Jorgesons . . . since it didn't bother them all the while, not until Gemma set the brand to the tree then it suddenly appeared out of nowhere venting a feral roar. Sam emptied both barrels of his shotgun into its chest and it reeled momentarily, long enough for Dean to grab the brand out of Gemma's hand and thrust it into the scarecrow's face. It snarled with rage as flames spread quickly through the parched flesh, then the snarl turned to an unearthly shriek as the whole form was suddenly ablaze and the next moment it vanished in a vapor of searing fire and smoke. Dean glanced back at the fiercely burning tree. The flames had done their work. The god was dead, and its victims were finally at rest.


	11. Scene 10

Afterward Gemma seemed in a hurry to get out of Dodge, so once they'd picked up the Impala they drove to the nearest bus station and she jumped on the first bus to anywhere. Dean was relieved, he guessed. After what had happened to her brother he'd expected her to be hot for blood, but in the end she was surprisingly philosophical about it. If anything, it was Sam who'd been all gung-ho for retribution.

"And the rest of the townspeople, they'll just get away with it?" he'd demanded.

"Well, what'll happen to the town will have to be punishment enough," Gemma had replied.

And then Sam had looked at Dean like he had some sort of casting vote or something. And it wasn't like Dean exactly had the warm and fuzzies for the good people of Burkitsville, but they were human beings after all. Technically. And the image of the Sheriff's fear stricken features was still fresh in his memory. Dean had come that close, _that_ close, to pulling the trigger. And he _knew_ that if the guy had actually succeeded in putting a bullet in Sam, Dean would have killed the man. No question. That wasn't a feeling Dean was in a hurry to revisit any time soon.

So, he'd agreed with Gemma, and they'd seen her off on her bus, and then he and Sam were alone together and it was just . . . all manner of awkward, and Dean almost wished himself some place else, except that he didn't. Not at all. So he took the awkward on the jaw and did his best to wave a tentative olive branch.

"I've got a motel room out by the interstate if you wanna clean up," he suggested.

The pause before Sam answered may only have been a moment or two but it felt totally full term and about to go into labor. But, to Dean's great relief, Sam nodded.

"Yeah," he said, "and you should let me take a look at your wrists and . . . what happened to your face?"

"That'd be the sheriff's gun butt when he took me out earlier," Dean replied "oh, and I think I might have popped a couple of stitches," he added hurriedly as Sam frowned slightly and looked like he was gonna ask a bunch more questions. "Maybe you could fix those for me, too." At least Sam was coming back to the motel with him. That was a start. He could deal with the whole show and tell about the last two days when they got there.

Dean turned and started heading toward the car park and Sam turned with him, but then Dean came to an abrupt halt. It was the first time he'd seen Sam's left side since they'd entered the depot, and now they were in the light he discovered that he wasn't the only one sporting bruises that weren't farm fresh. Nearly the whole left hand side of Sam's face was an ugly blotch of purple, yellow and black.

"What the hell – " Dean began, stupidly, then he understood. "Christ, Sam! Did _I _ do that?"

Sam looked blank for a moment then his hand strayed to his face and he fingered the bruises gingerly. He shrugged. "I'd forgotten about it," he said dismissively. "Guess it means you've stopped telegraphing your punches, right?" He added with a tentative smile, and then he turned and continued on to the car park. Dean let him get as far as the Impala, but he held him back before he got into the car.  
"Sam, clock me one," Dean told him, bouncing on his toes and bracing for the impact.

Sam just stood there, blinking. "What?"

"Come on," Dean insisted, clearing his throat and bouncing some more. "I won't even hit you back. Let's go."

"No."

"Let's go, you get a freebie. Hit me, come on."

"You look like you just went twelve rounds with a block of cement, Dean. I'll take a rain check."

"Ah, come on, Sam. Do it to make me feel better. I feel like 57 varieties of asshole, here."

Sam had the car door open but he closed it again and turned back. "Well, how do you think I feel, Dean?"

Dean paused and shrugged uncomfortably. He had no idea, actually.

Sam held out his hands and lifted them in jerky manner like he was a Thunderbird puppet with strings. And he had his cross head on.

"Dean . . . you could have _died_ tonight."

"O.K . . ." Dean agreed, frowning. "Well . . . that's not on you . . ." He tilted his head questioningly.

"Look, Dean, I need to know. Are you gonna carry on doing this? Hunting? 'Cause that wasn't the plan. You were supposed to be keeping your head low and staying safe. That's what you said you were gonna do."

"Yeah, well . . ." Dean scrubbed at the back of his neck. "I said a lot of things, Sam, but what am I gonna do? I'm half qualified in nothing and the only useful skills I've got are the ones you've taught me, and the days are gone when a guy could walk into a bar and get a job by singing a couple of bars of 'You Are My Sunshine'."

Sam stared uncomprehendingly at Dean for a moment then just shook his head. "Dean, you're young and fit and strong. You could get a job."

Dean felt torn. For a moment the easy option, for both of them, hung in the air all bright and shiny. He could do it, maybe, get laboring work somewhere. And if things worked out maybe Sam could get a job in another brake shop somewhere not too far away and then . . . well, one thing at a time. But it wasn't an option. Dean knew that.

"You know, Sam, I never finished anything in my life. Not a damn thing. But I _gotta_ finish this, 'cause it's my dad, you know?"

"Yeah, but we don't have any leads – "

"I know, Sam, but I'm not gonna find any sitting on my ass somewhere in Smallville, am I? And maybe we've been chasing our tails for the last six months but at least we've done some good in the process, haven't we? You know? Saving people, hunting things? Truth is . . . it's the only time in my life I've ever really felt I was doing anything worthwhile." Dean swallowed, and waited. After everything that had gone down, he didn't have the right to ask, and he was selfish to even hope Sam would offer, but he was hoping anyway.

"But, Dean, you _can't_ do it by yourself. You get that, don't you?"

"I know, Sam. And I know I was stupid to try. I screwed up. I almost got Gemma killed – "

"Oh, _fuck Gemma!_"

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

Sam paused, went to scratch behind his ear and pulled his arm back down to his side again. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that . . . I just meant . . . _You_ could've been killed, and you gloss over that like it's nothing. What's the matter with you, Dean? Don't you care whether you live or die?"

Dean frowned. "Well . . . yeah, of course I do. But if I drop myself in a pit that's my own lookout; I just don't wanna drag anyone else down with me."

Sam dropped his gaze to the ground. He was doing that head nodding thing he did sometimes. Dean wasn't sure what it meant. That he was pissed, probably.

"You know what, Dean?" Oh, yeah. He _was_ pissed. "If you get _yourself_ killed, _that_ affects other people, too." He turned, opened the car door, got in, and slammed the door behind him.

Dean stared after him for a moment, eyes wide and lips parted. He wasn't sure, but it sounded like Sam was trying to tell him something. It _sounded_ like he was trying to say that he gave a damn. And not just in that "if you save somebody's life (ten or twenty times) you're responsible for it" crap kind of way.

Dean moved round to the driver's door, opened it kinda quietly and slid onto the seat beside Sam, wishing that his heart wasn't beating quite so loudly. He cleared his throat and rubbed his nose. "Sorry, Sam," he said. Sam frowned a little but he didn't say anything or turn his head, so Dean just turned the engine over and started backing out of the parking lot. The radio came on but he turned it down low so if Sam had anything more he wanted to get off his chest he wouldn't be discouraged. Sure enough, after a minute or so, he spoke again.

"I just . . . why didn't you call me, Dean? Yesterday, I mean, when it all started. Were you still really mad at me? Or did you think I wouldn't want to help, or . . ."

"No, it wasn't that, Sam." Dean took a quick, deep breath and let it out again. It was cards on the table time. If he wanted this to go right there wasn't room to be coy. "I guess I had something to prove - to you, or to myself. I dunno."

"Prove what?"

Dean laughed humorlessly. "That I'm not completely fucking helpless." His fingers flexed uncomfortably on the steering wheel. "Don't get me wrong, Sam. It isn't that I don't appreciate all you've done for me. I do. But sometimes it really sucks always playing Lois Lane to your Superman. I'm not blaming you. It isn't Superman's fault he's Superman, but it's a tough gig for all the poor schmucks around him to live up to, you know?"

Dean glanced at Sam. He looked really confused. Oh, _surely_ he knew who Superman was?

"_That's_ how you see it?" Sam cried, incredulously.

"How else _would _I see it? I'm like the _Perils of Penelope Pitstop_, always tied to the freaking railway lines, and you're Peter fricking Perfect always having to swoop in and rescue me. How do _you_ see it?"

Sam swept a hand through his hair. "Like you wouldn't be _in peril_ if I hadn't put you there in the first place. Like all I ever do is to try and dig us out of a hole of my own making."

Dean tried to glance at Sam but a sharp bend forced his attention back to the road. It crossed his mind maybe they should stop having these kinds of conversations in the car.

"Where's this coming from, Sam?" he asked. "I chose this gig."

"_Did_ you, Dean? You were in shock from you mother's death, and I said I'd help you find your father. But I haven't. Six months on and we're nowhere."

"That isn't your fault."

Sam shrugged. He didn't reply.

"Look, Sam. I'm choosing _now_. And I'm asking for your help. O.K? I'm asking for it. 'Cause you're right. I can't do this alone." Dean sucked in another breath. "If you want to know the truth, I'm scared. Now I know what's out there? I mean I am truly, royally scared. All the time. But you've got to stop treating me like I'm made of fucking glass, Sam, 'cause it's not helping. You've been making me feel like you don't trust me to hold up my end and . . . well, even if that's true, you've still gotta let me fight my own battles. Whatever happens, Sam, I've gotta fight. 'Cause I'm afraid if I don't fight, I'll run." He swallowed. "And I'll never _stop_ running."

There were a few beats of silence before Sam eventually responded. "Dean, I'm scared, too," he admitted. "I don't doubt you can hold up your end, Dean. I really don't. But it's not like we have the resources the Campbells did. It's just the two of us and we have to have each others' backs. That's all I'm doing, Dean, just watching your back, that's all."

Dean took a moment to process that revelation. It hadn't occurred to him that Sam was white knuckling it, too. "Well, then you should let me watch yours from time to time," He persisted stubbornly.

There was another pause and then Sam said quietly, "I thought you already were."

Dean opened his mouth, closed it again. Recent events considered, he supposed he couldn't argue with that after all.

Seemingly apropos of nothing, Sam said "you're wrong, Dean" then he elaborated. "I'm not Superman. I'm not any kind of hero, or anything you'd want to 'live up to'. I'm a – . . ." He paused and shifted in his seat, changed tack. "You think what you're doing is worthwhile now, Dean, but I know what the life does to a person, and it's doing it to _you, _already. I'm watching it happen. You're _changing_, Dean."

Dean tightened his grip on the steering wheel and stared at the road ahead, to where the white line disappeared into the distance.

"Well, maybe I need to change, Sam."

When Sam replied his voice sounded oddly strained. "I just wanted you to have another option," he said.

Dean glanced across the seat, but the road was dark and Sam's face was in shadow. "I thought that's what _you _wanted," he said. "Back in Texas you told me you'd wanted to get out of the life."

"I did," Sam acknowledged.

Dean's shoulders slumped. He was being selfish. Sam had been trying to move on. It wasn't fair of Dean to keep trying to drag him back. He swallowed and straightened his shoulders. "You still could, Sam," he pointed out.

There was a breathy noise from Sam's side of the seat: maybe a sigh, maybe a smirk. Dean wasn't sure. "No, I think you're stuck with me," he said.

"You don't owe me anything, Sam," Dean insisted. "You're not my keeper. My problems are not your problems."

"But they _are_, Dean. The demon killed my mother, too, remember?"

"Yeah, years ago. You don't even remember her, you said so."

"I still wanna find it, Dean. 'Cause you're right; I don't want to spend the rest of my life running, either, and there's only one way this can end."

A shock of goose flesh washed over Dean suddenly. Why did those words sound familiar?

"Listen, Dean, you've lost your family, I've . . . walked away from mine. You and me. We're all that's left. So, if we're gonna see this through, we're gonna do it together."

Dean stared over at Sam, resisting the urge to reach out and hug him. "Yeah?"

It was strange. Sam always seemed so aloof and self-sufficient that it never occurred to Dean that Sam had nowhere else to go either, no one else to turn to, that maybe Sam was lonely, too.

"Yeah." Sam's nod was just about visible in the reflected light from the dash.

Dean hoped the tear that had escaped and was currently making a track down his face wasn't also visible. He cleared his throat. "Well . . . O.K, then," he said. That seemed to be the conclusion of the conversation so he turned up the radio a little to cover the lingering awkwardness. After a minute or so he asked Sam to check their heading.

"I missed the last sign for the interstate, Sam. Do you wanna check we're still on the right road?"

Sam pulled out the map book and flashlight. The glow illuminated his head bent over the pages and Dean suppressed a smile as he picked out the young man's features.

"Yeah, we're good," Sam confirmed presently. "The intersection's just around the next bend."


	12. Scene 11

Sam picked up a take-out from the diner while Dean took the first shower, and when he arrived back at the room the water was still running, which probably meant there wasn't going to be enough hot water left for a second shower for a while. The room was full of steam because Dean had left the bathroom door open, and he was singing along to the radio. Loudly. Sam shook his head. In spite of himself, a brief smile touched his lips.

He stepped carefully over the ring of salt Dean had poured around the door. He noted the line along the window, also, and the bottle of holy water sitting on the night stand with the torn out pages from the journal folded beneath it. That and all the precautions Sam had taught him wouldn't have helped if the scarecrow had decided to take Dean and his new friend instead of the Jorgesons. And if they'd been alone when it came, it might have done.

Sam left the take-out on the table along with the _Batman Forever_ DVD Dean had insisted on getting, for the bizarre reason that it was apparently the worst Batman movie ever made, and some popcorn Sam understood was not for eating so much as throwing at the screen. Dropping onto the nearest bed, Sam rested his head in his hands and slowly massaged his temples. Two nights on and they were right back where they'd started. Nothing had really been resolved. The only difference was that, now, Sam doubted there _was_ a resolution.

He lifted his head and stared at his reflection in the mirror over the desk. What was he seeing there? What was he _becoming_? It wasn't just dreams any more; he'd had an actual _vision_. What did that mean? This was the second time it had involved Dean. Did that mean he was connected in some way, or was it just that Sam's . . . attachment to Dean encouraged it? Sam knew he wouldn't be able to hide this for much longer. More than that, he knew he _shouldn't_. He shuddered and folded his arms across his body. If he could only get some answers first, be sure of what it all meant . . . If only he knew how Dean was going to react . . . Maybe he just shouldn't have come back . . . except, if he hadn't, Dean would probably be dead right now.

He sighed, picked up his back pack and pulled out his medical kit. He had a sense of having given up a battle, not because he'd forgotten the issues . . . if anything, there were more now than ever . . . It was more a feeling of being damned either way.

The faucet squeaked and the shower cut out, and a few minutes later Dean appeared clad in just his joggers and holding a screwed up wad of soggy and blood-stained bandage to his arm. He dropped the bloodied dressing into a bin and peered into the bags on the table. "You got pie!" he noted, delighted, but then a note of reservation entered his voice. "It isn't apple, is it?"

"Cherry," Sam assured him.

Dean grinned. "God love you, Sam. For that you're entitled to one free hug, redeemable any time in the next 7 days. After that the offer expires, or may be renewed with further purchases of pie."

Dean winked and then dug into his burger, and Sam felt his traitor cheeks beginning to glow as his insides flipped over and churned. He scratched at the hair behind his ear. "You're bleeding," he observed, diverting attention to the thin trickle on Dean's skin.

"The bandage got attached to my arm," Dean explained. "Didn't want to part with it. Think I managed to get it off without pulling any more stitches, though."

"Let me see." He lifted Dean's arm and checked the damage. The flesh around a couple of the stitches was torn and there was a little fresh bleeding where Dean had pulled scab off with the bandage, but it wasn't too bad; reparable. Somehow the livid weals around Dean's wrists were more disturbing, and yet oddly reassuring at the same time: testimony to the fire in Dean's blood, his refusal to simply lie down and die. He shook Sam off. "I'm eating, Sam," he grumbled. "Fix me after."

There were the other bruises all over his face and body. Too many. More than tallied with his account of the day's events. Sam wanted to know about those . . . but not tonight. That was another can again, and there were more worms than Sam knew how to deal with wriggling around them both already. And, irrationally, Sam hoped if he didn't press for answers himself, he might be spared the questions that Dean might want to pose.

_Don't ask. Don't tell._

Still, the message on Dean's flesh was clear: it was too late to save Dean from the infection of pain and violence Sam carried with him; he was already contaminated. With or without Sam, Trouble had painted a great fat target on Dean's back, and all Sam had done was to leave it exposed. That was one mistake, at least, that he wouldn't repeat. Sam turned toward the kitchenette, washed his hands and started preparing the ointments and sutures.

"You're not eating?" Dean asked.

"Later. I'm not hungry right now."

Dean frowned. "You O.K, Sam?"

"I'm fine. I . . . I ate earlier," he lied.

"Huh. Well, I'm ravenous. I skipped lunch. They didn't even feed us!" Dean complained. "What happened to our hearty last meal? I wanna know!"

"They were panicking, rushing things, not observing the rituals. That's probably a part of what saved your lives."

"And the other part?" Dean enquired.

"Well . . . the sacrifice was meant to be a fertility ritual. The scarecrow presumably took the Jorgesons because they were married, they were a couple, whereas . . . well . . ." Sam cleared his throat. "You and Gemma weren't . . . I mean, I'm presuming you didn't . . . ah . . ."

Dean raised his eyebrows. There was a trace of a smirk hovering at the corners of his lips. He knew _exactly_ what Sam was asking.

Sam coloured. "Don't be a jerk, Dean," he grumbled.

Dean grinned. "So you're saying I'm lucky I didn't get lucky. Well, there's a first."

Sam scowled. For a moment he couldn't remember what it was he thought he'd missed about Dean.

"Then I guess it's a good thing for you that you didn't bring _your_ lady friend along," Dean added.

Sam blinked. What was Dean talking about? "What lady friend?"

There was a brief pause and then, inexplicably, the shark tooth grin made an appearance. "Oh, come on, Sammy. No need to be shy," Dean insisted. "I heard her voice on the phone."

"Are you talking about, Meg? She was a fellow passenger . . . at the bus station. We were both waiting for the same bus and we got talking. That's all."

"Uh huh," Dean responded skeptically. "Telling you it was time to get up?"

Sam stared. He almost laughed. Surely . . . all the times Dean had tried to hook Sam up with waitresses and women in bars and . . . he _couldn't_ be jealous now, surely?

"Off the _floor_, Dean!" Sam explained. "We spent the night on the floor of the bus depot!"

The grin dropped off Dean's face. "Oh," he said simply. It wasn't often Sam got to see Dean looking embarrassed, and he didn't get to enjoy it long before Dean rallied with an adept change of subject. "Oh, well I might have known. Spend a night on your own and you're too tight-assed to even stump up for a motel room? Is that how you look after yourself when I'm not with you? You need me to take care of you more than I thought." He smirked a little, and Sam managed a small answering smile.

Dean screwed up his burger wrapper, dropped it in the bin and picked up his coffee. Sam proffered the bottle of painkiller toward it but Dean shook his head.

"Let's keep drugs and alcohol out of the mix this time, huh?" he suggested.

"Redoing the stitches is going to be more painful," Sam warned him.

"I'll manage. Just get it over with quick."

Sam shrugged and got on with it, and Dean bore it with the minimum of grunts and growls.

"Bus to where?" he asked presently.

"Wisconsin."

"What's in Wisconsin?"

Sam hesitated. "A case," he acknowledged after a breath.

Dean's mouth dropped open. "_By yourself_? After the lecture you gave _me_!"

"Nothing dangerous," Sam explained hastily. "Just a curiosity I wanted to look into."

Dean was quiet for a while. "So you weren't even trying to move on," he observed eventually. "You couldn't let it go, either."

Sam shrugged. "Guess not."

Dean uttered a soft, rueful laugh. "We're a pair, aren't we, Sam?" he said.

The question seemed to be rhetorical, so Sam finished the stitching and dressing in silence and moved on to smearing salve over the welts on Dean's wrists, then he did the same for the cuts and bruises on his face. He paused when he reached his neck, lifted his chin and stared at the ugly mark that mottled the flesh. "Dean, I'm really sorry," he murmured.

"Forget it," Dean replied, a little too casually. "As I recall, I threw the first punch."

"Not just for that, though, Dean," Sam persisted. "I mean . . . before that . . . I didn't mean to hurt you . . . frighten you . . ."

The jade eyes swiveled round to peer at Sam. "Oh, _God_," Dean groaned. "We're having _that_ conversation?"

"I just don't want you to think . . . I mean, I wouldn't have –"

"Look, I _know_, Sam. O.K? I overreacted, panicked. I had six and a half feet of solid Sasquatch on top of me and I freaked." Dean scrubbed at the back of his neck. "You're kind of a scary guy when you're off your leash, you know?"

"I'm sorry."

"You just wrong footed me, Sam, that's all. It wasn't the way I saw it going down. Somehow I'd imagined _I _was the one who was going to be leading the dance." Dean sighed and shrugged. "It's what I'm used to. I guess I just forgot who I was dealing with this time, huh?"

"But you were right, Dean."

"What about?"

Sam swallowed. "What you said. I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't know _anything_." He could feel the heat filling his face again but he continued regardless. "The sum total of my sexual experience amounts to that one time with the hooker and a couple of brief, clumsy encounters with my cousin." Sam cleared his throat. "And I didn't know what I was doing with her, either," he mumbled.

There was a pause. Dean was staring at him, and the longer the pause dragged out, the hotter Sam's cheeks grew.

"How old are you, Sam?" Dean asked gently.

Sam frowned. "Twenty-two," he replied. "Twenty-three next month," he added, as if that was going to make it any better.

"Huh," Dean responded after a beat. "Always imagine you're older, somehow." He continued to gaze thoughtfully at Sam, and then his brow knitted a little. "Wait . . . your _cousin_?" Dean's eyes widened. "Not . . . not the one who got killed in that vampire raid, Sam?"

Sam froze momentarily, and now he could feel the blood draining out of his face. He couldn't find a response but apparently his expression made a reply unnecessary.

"Fuck, Sam, I'm sorry." Dean breathed, and then he added "I wish you'd told me."

It had been so long since he'd told Dean about that Sam was surprised he'd remembered. He wondered what instinct had led Dean to make the connection, what tell had given Sam away. He cleared his throat but his voice was still raspy when he spoke. "I didn't want to talk about it."

"No, I get that, and it's none of my business, I know. It's just . . . all this time I've been so wrapped up in my own problems . . . and you've had shit of your own to deal with . . ." Dean shrugged awkwardly. "I didn't know." He frowned and added quietly, almost to himself "shoulda realized, though . . ."

"Dean, it wasn't – " Sam hastened to downplay the revelation. "I mean, Gwen and I weren't . . . a thing, or anything . . . I mean it wasn't going anywhere. It wasn't anything, really . . . It was just a couple of times . . . and I didn't even enjoy it, particularly . . . " That didn't sound good, and Dean's frown was deepening. "I mean, I was nervous, awkward . . ." Sam tried to explain. He cleared his throat and heaved in a deep breath. "The thing is: I'm not real comfortable with being touched, period."

Dean sat back and his face kind of emptied of expression, but Sam hurried on. Now they were into this, he might as well clear the air.

"That's kind of why I reacted the way I did when you made that comment about me being on the receiving end. It wasn't what you thought. It didn't have anything to do with who I thought belonged where. I just kind of freaked at the thought of it." Sam paused for breath then added, frankly, "Plus, you were yelling at me and it pissed me off."

Dean raised his eyebrows, but then he tossed his head in a gesture of acknowledgement that seemed to ease the tension a little. "So what are you saying . . . you have . . . what? Like a touch phobia?" he asked.

Sam shook his head. "I wouldn't go that far. Like I said, I'm just not that comfortable about it. I just . . . well, I wasn't brought up to . . . that is, we weren't a particularly physically demonstrative family . . . so I guess I just never really had that much experience of the kinds of physical contact that don't require medical attention afterward."

"_Jesus,_ Sam – "

"It's not a big deal, Dean. I just thought you should know, that's all."

Dean nodded thoughtfully. "It explains a few things," he acknowledged.

And they'd reached the point where, Sam realized, he should make one thing _totally _ clear. He cleared his throat and inhaled a deep breath –

"You know, I could help you with that," Dean said.

Sam exhaled again, rather quickly. "What?"

"I'm not saying I'm an _expert_ on touch taboo or anything . . . " Dean elaborated, "but I got a few ideas," and he lifted his head and fixed Sam with eyes that were suddenly large and serious, and suggestive of a world of possibilities that Sam couldn't even begin to guess at.

Sam's mouth went dry and his flesh was running hot and cold. "I . . . er . . . I don't think that's a good idea," he replied, with a voice that was barely more than a whisper . . . and less than convincing. _Crap_. Sam knew better than that. You don't use equivocal phrases like '_I don't think'_ when you're trying to make a statement. They practically invite argument.

"You don't know what I'm suggesting yet," Dean pointed out.

"Wh – whatever you have in mind, I don't think – " _Damn_.

"Sam, I get it. Your life's been a river of crap, and to say that your first attempt at an intimate relationship ended badly is the world's biggest understatement, but you've got to put that behind you – "

"Dean, you don't understand – "

"Yeah, I do. You felt responsible for what happened to your cousin, and you're afraid it'll happen again."

Sam hadn't anticipated the blunt summary and it left him feeling airless.

"Doesn't have to be that way, Sam," Dean insisted.

"Don't you think things are complicated enough between us, Dean?" Sam resumed after a few beats. "Our lives are on the line. We can't afford to be distracted."

"I agree. Absolutely."

Sam opened his mouth and shut it again. That was . . . unexpected.

"And you know what's real distracting, Sam?" Dean continued. "When you're trying to concentrate on something important and your belly's rumbling. So when you're hungry, you should eat. Belly stops rumbling, then you can get on with the job."

Sam shook his head. "It isn't that simple, Dean."

"No, it _is_ that simple, Sam!" Now _that's_ what conviction sounds like. "Horse has gotta eat, Sam. People have needs and you can't just ignore them, pretend they're not there and hope they'll go away. It doesn't work that way. Trust me, this is a subject I _do_ know something about."

Sam didn't doubt it.

"Sam, we've gotta have something in our lives that's not blood and guts and . . . and medical attention. We need to hold on to the things that keep us human, _especially_ because our lives are on the line. Any day either one of us could draw the short straw, never mind what either of us does, just because shit happens. And if you're not careful, Sam, you could die without ever having lived, and I'm _damned_ if I'm gonna let that happen!"

Sam stared. He didn't know what to say. Was Dean right? Was this the key to keeping them both human? Sam had been afraid it could go entirely the other way . . . maybe they were _both_ right.

"Wow." Dean cleared his throat and pinned an awkward smirk on his features. Clearly he'd embarrassed himself again. "Maybe when we're through with all this I could have a career in motivational speaking. What do you think?"

Sam ducked his head and grinned. "Totally," he agreed.

Dean rose to his feet and moved closer to Sam. Maybe a little too close. Sam wasn't sure.

"Listen, Sam, I'm not proposing anything radical, here," he said. "I'm sure as hell not suggesting anyone fucks anyone tonight, if that's what you're worried about. That's definitely_ not_ on the menu."

Sam frowned. "Then what . . .?"

"Baby steps, Sam," Dean explained. "Start with a massage, maybe – or a back rub, foot rub – " he added hurriedly when Sam looked doubtful. "Hell, a _hand_ massage if that's all you think you can manage. The point is, you don't have to go any further than you feel comfortable with. It's completely up to you."

"So, if the motivational speaking doesn't work out, you're planning a move to occupational therapy?" Sam suggested.

"Oh, bite me!" Dean retorted with a grin. But then he moved a little closer and suddenly he was all eyes and long,_ long_ eyelashes, and when he spoke his voice was a low purr that kind of made Sam's skin hum. "You could stand to let someone take care of _you_ for a change, Sam," he said.

Sam looked up at that. Maybe there was something in that. It was the second time Dean had made some comment about wanting to take care of Sam. Was that something _Dean _needed as well, to feel that it went both ways? Maybe even to be able to show off in his area of . . . expertise. Sam shivered as he felt the buzz of Dean's proximity run over his flesh. One thing was certain: if Sam had found it difficult to fight his feelings before, it was going to be twice as hard fighting Dean as well.

"Just a massage?" he queried.

"If that's all you want, Sam, absolutely," Dean assured him, except that his eyes were altogether too wide and innocent. And then he was all kind of businesslike, as if everything was agreed already. "O.K. Go take a nice long, warm shower and change into your night jammies," he said, giving Sam a light push in the direction of the bathroom, and when Sam was still hesitant he added "trust me, Sam. I know what I'm doing."

_Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of_, Sam thought. But he found himself being hustled into the bathroom all the same.

When the door closed behind him Dean pulled out his duffel and started hunting for the bottle of baby oil he knew was at the bottom somewhere. He found that and a box of breath mints, and he tossed a couple of those into his mouth and sucked on them while he booted up his laptop and waited for the media player to load. He had about ten minutes to search his library for tracks that were sexy _and_ reassuring . . . maybe some Aretha, and Roberta Flack . . . Sarah McLachlan sprung to mind, too . . . Yeah. Perfect. He grinned as he added "Fumbling Toward Ecstasy" to the playlist.

"_Just_ a massage," he chuckled softly. _Dean, you are going to Hell._


	13. Scene 12

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Aplogies for the long delay in posting. This has been a long and intense scene to write, but I didn't think readers would appreciate it being broken up. I hope you'll consider it worth the wait :)**

**.**

The flowers of the Clary Sage plant were pretty, delicate, and it seemed like there was less weight behind Sam's hand than usual when he'd drawn them. The lines were light and soft compared to the illustrations in the monster sections. Dean felt a shiver as he flicked back through those pages. It had been a while since he'd thought about the journal as anything besides a research tool, thought about its author and reflected that the neat controlled print and the nightmare pictures were penned by the same person, about the different faces of the control freak and the hunter and everything that broiled beneath them – the side of Sam that Dean was just beginning to glimpse.

And then there were these flowers, and somehow Dean associated them with the shy boy with the pink cheeks and dimples . . . and he was maybe the most dangerous of any of them. He could make you forget the rest were there, all part of the package, and forget he came wrapped in the trained body of a hunter who could snap you like a twig if you didn't show due respect.

The microwave pinged and Dean took out his homemade herbal infusion and placed it on the desk. He stood over it for a moment, breathing in the unusual aroma. Sam should get out into the daylight more. Get out into the countryside and draw more flowers. It would do him good. The question was how to suggest it without sounding like a total girl.

Dean walked over to the nightstand, turned on the nightlight and double checked the safety on the Colt semi.

The thing about women – most of the women Dean had been with, anyway – they're happy to take things slow. And most of them had been content to let Dean take the lead, and those that had ideas of their own were cool with Dean because he was more than happy with the ideas they'd had. But then – not that Dean had ever thought about it before, but it was true anyway – Dean had always known he could put a stop to proceedings if he'd needed to. But the thing about Sam – and O.K, it sounds obvious _now_ – is that getting into bed (onto a bed, whatever) with a six and a half foot, 220 lb ninja hunter guy was a whole different ball game. So Dean was willing to admit that just starting the ball rolling before, and assuming he could just go with the flow like he normally did, wasn't the best idea he'd ever had. He hadn't wanted to admit to Sam outright just _how_ freaked he'd felt in the moment when he'd found himself needing to call a time out, and it had suddenly dawned on him he was at the mercy of a guy who could probably, definitely, have overpowered Dean if he'd really wanted to . . . well, he reckoned Sam had got that memo, anyway . . . And, O.K. so maybe Dean had realized since then that he wasn't quite as helpless as he'd imagined he was (now he'd had something to compare himself with besides monsters and aforementioned ninja) – all the same, he wasn't about to make the same mistakes again. This time they both needed to know up front where the lines were.

Speaking of lines . . . Dean checked the salt around the door and windows again, checked the rock salt gun and put it back beside the door, and he turned out the main lamp, leaving the room in a muted light warmed by the glow from the wall heater. So, he needed to think ahead, know in advance where his own lines were drawn: what he was cool with; what he wasn't sure about; where he definitely didn't want to go just yet. He spent a few minutes reflecting on that.

He gazed over at the holy water and his glance swept around the room, taking in the cat's eye shells he'd tossed around for good measure. No ghosties, ghoulies or beasties getting into this room. No unexpected bumps tonight.

Sam wasn't the only one who needed to feel secure.

The faucet squeaked as Sam turned off the shower. "O.K." Dean sat by the laptop, drew in a breath and let it out slowly. "_O.k. o.k. o.k. o.k."_

Sam emerged from the bathroom tentatively, looking all gauche and awkward in his t-shirt and joggers, and as he peered around the room he was making a fine attempt to swallow his own Adam's apple. But then he sniffed and the tramlines between his eyebrows started to wiggle.

"Is that Angelica root?" His attention fixed on the herbal infusion.

"And clary sage," Dean acknowledged. "Your book says they both have properties that are good for relieving anxiety."

Sam stared at him and shifted firmly into bitch mode. "Dean, we have those herbs for protection spells not . . . _aromatherapy_!"

"Good. You should feel protected, then."

"Dean – "

"Sam, _chill_." Dean should find that tone in his voice more often. It shut Sam up. "It's just a few herbs. Now, go check the salt lines in the bathroom, and the back. Check _all_ the lines. Put your gun or your knife or whatever on the nightstand. Do whatever you need to do to satisfy yourself you're in a safe space, then pick a bed and sit down."

Sam hesitated briefly but then he went around the room, basically repeating all the checks Dean had already made, while Dean shifted the cursor on the laptop and clicked on 'play'. There were a couple of bars of introductory music before the lyric began:

_All the fear has left me now.  
__I'm not frightened any more.  
__It's my heart that pounds beneath my flesh.  
__It's my mouth that pushes out this breath._

Well, it made Dean feel better, anyway. Hopefully it would do the same for Sam, who was sitting on the bed nearest the door now, with his fingers curled tightly around the edge of the mattress. Dean picked up the ointment Sam had been using earlier and moved over to him.

"Sam, you look like you're going to the chair," Dean remarked gently. "Try to relax a little. Just gonna see to these bruises." He dipped his fingers into the jar and reached toward Sam's face, without touching yet. "O.K?"

Sam nodded, one swift duck of the head. As Dean's fingers touched his skin he flinched the tiniest bit, but then he held his ground as Dean gently smoothed the ointment over the bruised flesh. And now it was Dean's turn to swallow.

"Let's not do this kind of shit to each other again, eh, Sam?" he said, his voice a low murmur. He finished with the jar and left it on the nightstand then sat cross-legged on the end of the bed, next to Sam but not too close.

"Turn around, Sam. Face me."

Sam turned, drew his legs onto the bed and mirrored Dean's position. His Adam's apple bobbed again.

"O.K. Well . . ." Dean cleared his throat like he needed to warm up his vocal chords before he gave his communication skills a work-out. "Look, I'm nervous, too, O.K?" he admitted. "'Cos I've never done anything like this with a guy before. Like . . . ever." _Haven't had to have a conversation like this with a guy before either. _"So . . . hurrhhm . . . some house rules, before we get started. First of all, I swear to you I'm not going to do anything you're not comfortable with," he re-iterated. "I'm not gonna do a damn thing without _asking_ you first. O.K?"

"O.K." Sam's voice sounded a bit wobbly.

"And second, I'm not gonna ask you to do anything you don't want to. In fact, I don't want you to feel there's any requirement or responsibility for you to do anything at all unless you feel like it."

"O.K . . ." Sam repeated.

"But . . ." Dean cleared his throat again. "If you _do_ get the urge to do something, you ask first. O.K? There's to be no sudden grabbing, pushing or jumping tonight."

Sam's eyes widened. "Absolutely! Dean, I – "

Dean held up his hand to stay the rest. "Just saying, Sam, that's all. So we're clear. And just so you know . . . I had a think about my . . . ah . . . . hrrhhrrhm . . . about what my own limits would be . . . and I'd have to say that anything that involves anything going _in_ anywhere is off the menu." Dean paused for a moment and thought about the full implications of that statement. He tipped his head sideways. "Except kissing, maybe," he qualified. Sam had started scratching at the back of his neck so Dean quickly continued "I'm just talking about my _personal_ limits, here, Sam. Just so you know, upfront, and there's no surprises. Doesn't mean _you_ have to go that far. You tell me kissing's off the table, it's off the table. End of."

There was a weird silence, and Sam was just kind of _staring_ at Dean's mouth.

"_Is_ it off the table?" Dean asked.

Sam was still staring.

"Ah . . . huhrm . . . well, you don't have to make up your mind about that right away. Like, I said, I'll ask first. So . . . ah . . . anything you want to add to any of that, Sam?"

"Huh?" Sam lifted his gaze slowly. "Ah . . . yeah . . . um . . ." and now he was doing some vocal exercises of his own. "Ahm . . . I think we should both keep our pants on," he suggested.

Dean absorbed that for a moment then nodded. "O.K. Anything else?"

Sam deliberated, had another scratch at his ear. "No, I think I'm good."

Dean flashed a self-conscious grin. "O.K. good," he said. "Well, that's the socially awkward portion of the evening done, then." He extended his arms toward Sam. "Do you think you can take my hands, Sam?"

Sam gazed uncertainly at Dean's outstretched hands, but he rolled his shoulders, wiped his own palms on his joggers and placed them over Dean's. In turn, Dean simply supported their weight with his and allowed his thumbs to close gently over Sam's fingers. They felt slightly chill to his touch at first but, in time, his own body heat would warm them.

"Just look at me and try to breathe normally," he said quietly.

The breathing thing was easy for Sam; he was practiced with all the Zen hunting thing. He soon had it under control, sooner than Dean did. Didn't mean he was less nervous or fearful, Dean realized; just meant he controlled it. Meeting Dean's gaze was harder for him, and his face was a little flushed from self-consciousness, but he seemed to get used to it after a while. It was hard for Dean, too, looking Sam in the face when all he could see at first were the bruises he'd put there. _Christ_, he hadn't known he could so much damage, but he forced himself to look, to focus on the hurt he'd caused, so he wouldn't forget.

And after a while his attention was drawn to other features, to the beauty of the young man in front of him: the rebel curls of his hair and the way the chestnut and gold highlights glowed in the soft light, the boyish heart-shaped face (of course he was only twenty-two; why did Dean ever think he was older?), the gentle arch of his eyebrows, the line and curves of his nose and the way it turned up just a little at the end . . . Dean kinda wanted to run his finger down it, follow the groove beneath down to those pretty lips (oh damn, _please_ don't let kissing be off the menu) to the dip beneath them and the gentle cleft in his chin. Also on Dean's to-do-list, if he got the opportunity, was to bestow one soft, small kiss on that beauty spot . . .

Can you tell a man he's beautiful? In a situation like this? If Dean had been with a woman right about now he'd be saying something along those lines, but Sam would probably freak if Dean started waxing lyrical about all the colors glistening in those soft almond eyes: the gold, the green, the grey and the blue all blending into a deep rich hazelnut as Sam's dark wide pupils dilated . . . Dean inhaled deeply and let the breath out slow through slightly pursed lips.

_I won't fear love._

The words floated suggestively from Dean's laptop and repeated themselves over and over again like a mantra. _Love?_ Was that what this was: this maddening kaleidoscope of feelings and emotions that shattered into new shapes and colors with every turn; that continually vacillated between confusion and obsession, the desire to escape and the longing to have and keep? Sam had always thought of love as something conceptual, an idea, but this was primal. This was something you could die over or, worse, kill for. If this was love then maybe it _should_ be feared.

T. S. Eliot once said that "only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things". Dean had those things – _Hell_, he _embodied _them – but he never seemed to want to escape from them. Dean might want to run from monsters and demons, from the tangible threats that menaced his life, but he didn't run from himself. Sam had made a lifetime out of self-denial and escape, but now it felt like he could lose himself in Dean more completely than Eliot ever had in his pseudo-Buddhist nihilism.

_ I won't fear love._

Dean had a plan. Clearly. That was an unnerving concept in itself: Dean Winchester acting with forethought and intention instead of just reacting on instinct and whim to whatever appeared in front of him. Dean knew the territory, knew where he was going, and Sam was supposed to put himself in Dean's hands and let himself be led, the stranger in a strange land . . . a land charmed into existence with dimmed lights, musical invocations and slightly intoxicating scents . . . by hands that were currently doing nothing except supporting Sam's, their warmth radiating up into his palms . . .

_Peace in the struggle to find peace.  
__Comfort on the way to comfort._

The meta-message of Dean's speech was clear: Sam was expected to do nothing, just watch and learn from the master. It was hard for Sam not to act, not to plan, to do nothing except wait and wonder what Dean was going to do next. Whatever it was, Dean didn't seem to be in any hurry. He was content to just sit and gaze at Sam. It felt strange to be looked at that way, by someone who didn't appear to be looking _for_ anything. It was stranger still to have permission to look back - after all the furtive glances, all the months Sam had tried to hide his fascination, struggled against the compulsion . . . to be allowed now to just _look_ at those great wide liquid-bright . . . just _swim_ in them, in the depths . . . if he were allowed to touch, reach out and . . . he'd be very careful, very gentle . . . just lightly brush the fringe, just the very edge where it curled . . . then follow the shell of the ear, the line of the cheek down to . . . soft, so . . . all soft and full and plush . . . slightly parted . . . invitation . . . temptation . . .

. . . would it be so bad? so wrong? . . . one kiss, just one . . . to know what it felt like . . . not hard and all teeth clashing like before but right, the right way, like Dean . . . he wouldn't . . . he'd let Dean . . . let Dean show him

"Sam?"

It was a soft sound through pursed lips but it startled Sam. He hadn't realized he was leaning forward until he rocked back upright and it made his head swim a little, and his heart thump.

"How are you feeling?"

Sam's heartbeat accelerated a little more. Something was happening.

"Good," Sam replied, which was true, sort of, but "nervous," also true.

"I don't bite, Sam," Dean assured him then he reconsidered and grinned. "Well, I _won't_. Not tonight."

It was just a quip, but it bothered Sam a little with its inbuilt assumptions about other nights and what they might contain. They were getting into something . . . Sam was _letting_ Dean get them into something . . .

"Do you feel up to that back rub?" Dean asked.

His eyes were so large and open . . . clueless . . .

"Do you feel up to _trying_?" he qualified.

He had no idea what he was getting into . . . or who with . . . Sam should tell him, be honest with him, before they went any further.

"Dean . . ."

"Yeah, Sam?"

Sam stared at the wide bright orbs like a deer caught in the headlights . . .

_"We were from two totally different worlds. There was no way we could ever really understand each other. And the more he learned about me, the more he was gonna see that he wouldn't like."_

Dean's head tilted to one side and he half blinked while he waited for Sam to complete the thought, but the words wouldn't come out of Sam's mouth.

Sam shook his head. "Nothing. I'm . . . I'm ready."

"You sure?"

"Yeah," Sam said decisively and stripped off his t-shirt. It was only a back rub, for fuck's sake. "What do you want me to do?"

Dean frowned, annoyed with himself. He shouldn't have made that crack about biting Sam. Sam had been starting to relax and now he was all tense again. One wrong note . . . well, he'd just have to make sure he was more careful is all.

"Just lie on the bed, face down," he said, standing up to give Sam room to spread out. "Make yourself as comfortable as you can."

He reached for the baby oil and tipped some into his hand while Sam arranged himself, spreading and warming it between his palms as he took a seat by Sam's side.

Sam eyed the bottle quizzically. "You carry _baby oil_ around with you?"

"Wouldn't ever be without it," Dean assured him. He was about to add another comment about its manifold uses, but he restrained himself. "O.K." he said, easing out his breath as he felt his own nerves getting a grip again. "Gonna take this real slow, Sam, keep it basic to begin with. Any time you don't like what I'm doing or you feel uncomfortable for any reason, you tell me and I'll stop. O.K?"

Sam nodded but he was clinging a little too tightly to the pillow and as Dean reached toward him he turned his head the other way. Kinda reminded Dean of the way _he_ always looked away at the last moment when anyone approached him with a hypo, so he wouldn't have to watch the needle go in.

"Sam, is there _any_ happy memory in that noggin of yours?" Dean asked. "Something you could think about that'll help you relax?"

Sam reflected for a few moments. "When I was a kid there was a hunter, a friend of the family – sort of. He used to take me out to play ball and stuff sometimes. I enjoyed that."

"O.K. Good – "

"And there was a dream . . ." Sam's eyebrows puckered. "Could never remember what it was about but for a while after I woke up I always felt good . . . happy." He swallowed. "It's been a while since I've thought about that."

"Well, think about it now." Dean told him. "Try to hold that feeling in your head."

He didn't touch Sam right away though; he just held his hand over the small of Sam's back, waiting for him to settle. The muscles there tightened in anticipation but Dean didn't lower his hand until they'd stopped bunching. Sam's body twitched when he finally made contact but, again, Dean waited for Sam to grow accustomed to the touch before proceeding, and then he moved his hand up Sam's back in a long, slow, firm stroke.

"That O.K, Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam confirmed. His voice came out raspy, but his grip on the pillow loosened slightly, so presumably it was better than he'd expected.

Dean repeated the action with another stroke just to the right of the first, then he continued, moving out slowly and methodically from Sam's spine to the edge of his rib cage, and then he did the same the other side. It felt kinda weird, the flesh under his hands, but good. It wasn't soft like a woman's, but smooth and firm. Dean closed his eyes and focused on the feel of muscles rippling under his palms. It kinda reminded him of the first time he drove the Impala. He remembered the nervous exhilaration of holding all that power in his hands, but knowing it needed delicate handling, firm but smooth. He needed to demonstrate he knew what he was doing, could be trusted.

"Not gonna hurt you, Babe," he breathed.

"What?" Sam murmured.

Dean's eyes opened up again. "Um . . . how's that feel, Sam?"

There was a momentary pause then Sam replied, with a hint of surprise in his voice, "it's O.K."

And it was. It was calming, even, the warmth of Dean's hand, the firmness, the predictable rhythm and progression of the strokes. Gwen's touch had been different, lighter, kind of ticklish. It had made Sam nervous and edgy. But there was a sense of stability in what Dean was giving him. As the same sequence repeated over and over Sam began to feel that he knew what he could expect from it, and the instinct that he should be defending himself gradually abated. After a while he found himself breathing in time with it: a long, slow exhale with the movement of Dean's hand up his back, inhaling as it lifted, holding for a moment or two as he felt Dean's palm returning to his lower back, felt its warmth radiating through the muscles there, and exhaling again as it traveled its upward path once more.

He realized he'd been clinging to the pillow, like it was a life raft. Now he flexed and stretched out his fingers and let them settle back into place, around the edge but not gripping it. After a few minutes Dean spoke again.

"Gonna use both hands now, Sam. O.K?"

Dean reached for the bottle and oiled his palms again then rose up a little and supported himself on one knee while he placed a hand either side of Sam's spine. Same as before, he waited while Sam adjusted to the change in the routine. His hands slid upward, like before, but this time there was more weight behind it. It pressed Sam into the mattress and pushed the air out of his lungs. To his surprise the breath came out as a long, low groan.

"Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn hhhhhhhh . . ."

It surprised Dean, too. Maybe it shouldn't have done, but he'd gotten used to the quiet, low-key atmosphere that had settled on the room, and he was so used to Sam being all repressed and controlled. Unfortunately – maybe inevitably – the mutt downstairs had heard it, too.

_Hello?_

_Shuddup, you. _Dean scolded_. Nobody's talking to you. The grown ups are busy. Go back to sleep._

The not so grown up part of Dean wanted to hear that groan again, all the same, but he knew you didn't get it from rushing things. He continued exactly as before, same routine, starting in the middle of Sam's back and moving outwards with each stroke. Slow. Easy. Watching Sam. Feeling him. Paying attention to every nuance. Noting that the grip on the pillow tightened again for a while, the muscles a little tense, a tremor in the next few breaths, but easing, the tone lengthening and deepening with each successive stroke, each breath.

There was a kind of argument going on inside Sam between different feelings, sensations. The thud of his heart was rapid, but his breathing was still slow and measured, in time with Dean's strokes. The exhalations were tight at first, breaking with a soft stutter into a long low gust as the pressure increased and ending in a rush and a tremor. He flexed his fingers again, willed them to relax, but each time Dean's hands worked up his back they curled and uncurled; his eyelashes would flutter closed briefly then open again. It felt good, that pressure. It was calming, steadying. But with each stroke there was an ebb and flow between tension and release that was somehow relaxing and stimulating at the same time. The gradual loosening of his back muscles was accompanied by a tightening of the flesh round his hips and thighs, and the awakening pulse of arousal. He got used to it after a while, even allowed himself to enjoy the undemanding throb. Just occasionally, the push of Dean's hands into the small of his back would prompt his hips to rock into the mattress.

In the next stage Dean started moving his hands in arcs, up and out to the sides, as if he was smoothing out the tension in the muscles, dissipating it and pushing it out and away from Sam's body. When he reached the top his sweep continued over Sam's shoulders and the tops of his arms. Then his hand moved down Sam's arm, closed gently around Sam's wrist and tried to move his hand away from the pillow. It was Sam's ingrained first impulse to resist, just a knee-jerk reflex, but as he looked round their eyes met and Dean just waited. He said nothing, just fixed Sam with eyes that were reassuring and patient, and Sam let the resistance drain out of the limb and allowed Dean to reposition it as he saw fit. He draped it over his knee, supporting it under one hand while the other worked over the muscles of the shoulder and upper-arm, then the rest down to the wrist. When he reached the bottom he wrapped one hand round Sam's lower arm, placed the other on his shoulder and pulled gently until all the muscles and joints were taut. It created a pleasant tension in the limb that dissipated even more pleasantly when Dean let it drop. Next he lifted Sam's hand and stroked it a few times before interlacing their fingers, flexing Sam's long digits and drawing them out, producing a similar sensation of tension and release. Then he worked on each finger individually. Sam tried, rather unsuccessfully, to ignore the erotic connotations that sprang to mind as Dean's warm fingers closed around each of Sam's in turn and gently pulled.

Dean had an erection, too. Sam could see it tenting the front of his joggers. But his face was passive, his attention quietly fixed on what he was doing. Sam tried to look away but somehow his gaze kept gravitating back to Dean's hips.

"Where did you learn all this stuff, Dean?" he asked in an effort to distract himself.

Dean tossed his head carelessly. "All over: TV, movies, magazines, girlfriends. Had one girlfriend who was training to be a physio."

Sam grunted. Too much information.

"Sometimes I just make shit up," Dean admitted. He lifted his gaze to Sam's face. "Is it working?"

Sam shrugged. "I guess."

Dean grinned slowly. "Must be doing something right, then." He let Sam's arm drop and for a moment it draped over the side of the bed, limp as a rag doll, before Dean folded it at the elbow and replaced Sam's hand under the pillow. He went through the same motions with the other shoulder and arm then paused and sat on the edge of the bed. He seemed to have reached some kind of conclusion.

"Is that it?" Sam asked, trying not to sound disappointed because, after all, Dean had spent a good long time on him already. All the same, he didn't really want it to end just yet because, actually, he _was_ enjoying it. He hadn't felt this good in . . . well, probably ever.

"Up to you, Sam," Dean replied. "How are you feeling? Think you're ready for the next stage?"

_The next stage? _The phrase sent a scurry of mixed feelings chasing over Sam's flesh and through his insides. "What's the next stage?" he asked. His voice came out a little wispy.

"We'll be getting deeper into the muscles. Working out all those kinks and knots. It's a little more intense."

"Um . . ."

"Like I say, Sam. If you don't like it, you can just say so and I'll stop right away."

Sam hesitated. At this point, _not_ liking it wasn't exactly what he was worried about.

"Or . . ." Dean studied him searchingly. "Did you want to stop now?"

"No!" Sam assured him. "No, I . . . what . . . what do I do?"

Dean grinned. He kinda couldn't help loving this version of Sam that asked for instructions and treated Dean like he was in charge. "Just turn over and sit up," he said.

Sam seemed a little perturbed by that suggestion. "Oh . . ." Pink spots were growing in his cheeks. "Er . . ." Dean had an idea he could guess why. Oh, _now_ he was shy?

"Yeah, I know, so, you've got an erection," Dean told him, all matter of fact and casual about it. "I've seen it before . . . just tell me it hasn't grown some more since I last saw it."

"Ah . . . no." Sam laughed nervously but his embarrassment seemed to dissipate and he turned over.

_Ho - oly Moley!_ Dean wasn't so sure it _hadn't_ grown. He realized he was staring so he brushed it off with another joke. "Not saying I'm intimidated or jealous or anything, Sam, but when you're with another guy I think being that big is just kinda rude."

Sam laughed again. He ducked his head and the dimples warmed his cheeks. Dimples make up for anything.

"You're not exactly under endowed yourself, Dean," he observed, directing a sly little glance to the front of Dean's joggers.

"Yeah, I _used to_ think so," Dean agreed, but he dropped the banter as Sam drew up his knees and wrapped his arms round them. "No, Sam, not like that. Just let your knees drop and try to hold your legs and arms as loose as you can."

As Sam complied Dean knelt behind him and placed his hands on Sam's back. There was no twitchy reaction this time, he noted, but he continued with the smooth, firm strokes from before until he was sure Sam was accustomed to his touch again, then he began kneading the tops of his shoulders. Sam liked that. It drew a series of little "mm" noises from him. Dean liked hearing them. He persisted with the kneading for a little longer then he started working his thumbs in small circles along the line of the muscle, increasing pressure as he moved inward.

"mm" "Mm" "mMM" "MMM"

_oo._ Dean sucked on his lower lip. Sure sounded like the right kind of noises, but he checked to make sure. "You O.K, Sam?"

"Mmm."

"Not hurting you, am I?

"N-no."

"You want more?"

"Mmmmm."

After a quick necessary adjustment to the front of his pants, which were feeling a little crowded, Dean replaced his hands on Sam's shoulders and started working inward again, a little lower this time.

"Mm" "MM" "Oh yeah." "MMM" "_Nnnnngggggggg – guh!_"

O.K. Dean was officially loving those noises. So was Fido. Not a problem - Dean was used to ignoring him when necessary. Sam's shoulders, though, not so easy to ignore. Quite apart from the way they were arching and flexing and doing all sorts of feel good things under Dean's fingers, they were just so . . . kissable. Dean was fighting off an urge to run his lips over the arch of Sam's neck and nibble the flesh and similar things that Sam likely wasn't ready for and would freak at. He shook his head and returned his attention to what he was doing.

"Mmmm . . . mm yeah . . . oh y – mm could you . . ? . . just . . lower, lower . . ." Sam's back arched and his head tilted back. "Yeah . . . oh yeah . . . _fuck_ . . . oh yeah, there! Right there! – yeah, oh _FUCK yeah!_"

Dean adjusted his position again and blew a slow breath through barely parted lips. _Settle,_ he warned Fido. _I will flick you if I have to. _He spread his palms like butterfly wings across Sam's shoulder blades and started wiggling his thumbs like caterpillars up either side of the spine. With every inch he moved the bow of Sam's back deepened and his neck stretched back further. His eyes were tight shut, his mouth half open, and his breath was coming out in tiny stuttering gasps. It was fucking beautiful.

Sam was clinging to his joggers now, and his toes were curled into the bedspread. It wasn't nerves any more; it was . . . He hadn't appreciated how much tension he was holding in his muscles until Dean started working into them and then it was . . . it was like Dean's hands had fucking magical properties or something; like they radiated some kind of unique warmth and energy. He seemed to know exactly where to go, exactly how hard to push so it was . . . _damn_ . . . so tight it was borderline painful but it felt so _ fucking _ good, it was fucking _amazing_. It was a relief, though, when Dean took the pressure off and just smoothed over Sam's shoulders for a few moments, gave him a chance to catch his breath. He was kind of panting, actually. Dean pressed his hands against Sam's back and gently rocked him forward. One hand slid up his back and neck and eased his head down. His fingertips rested at the nape of Sam's neck and started working up toward the hairline. _Jesus . . . Jesus . . ._ it was sending shivers everywhere, over his scalp, his shoulders, down his back. His arms were getting goose bumps. It felt good, so good, but it was . . . _man,_ it was . . .

"Dean," he gasped. "Dean . . . Dean . . ."

Dean stopped, rested his hands soothingly on Sam's shoulders. "You all right, Sam?"

Sam was panting again. "It's a bit . . ."

"Too much?"

"Maybe. It feels good but . . . small doses?"

Dean nodded. "'s O.K. I've got something else."

Sam laughed softly. He didn't doubt that Dean's box of magic was bottomless. He felt Dean's hand pressing his shoulder and allowed Dean to turn him and guide him back down onto the bed. It was kind of a relief to lie pressed against the mattress. It eased the growing ache in his dick. He was unequivocally turned on now. His dick was hard and tight and leaking into his pants. The voice of reason, the voice of control, whispered _should have stopped at stage two,_ but a deeper, more insistent voice growled back _Fuck OFF!_

Dean was using the heels of his hands now, in circular motions down Sam's back, alternating between that and smooth arcs with the palms of his hands, squeezing the tension from the muscles and smoothing it away – pressure, tension, release; pressure, tension, release – _God. God . . . God . . . Go – od! _Sam was clinging to the pillow again, or rather grasping it and running his hands up and down the edges by turn. His feet kept lifting into the air and scrunching, toes curling, and he was emitting a series of keening noises, grunts, gasps and sighs. _Just a massage_, Sam had said. _Only a back rub._ Yeah, and the Sistine Chapel ceiling is only a painting.

Dean's hands came to rest at the waistline of Sam's joggers. They lay still there for a few moments and then one was withdrawn. When Sam looked round Dean was scrubbing at his jaw. His eyes met Sam's with another searching look.

"Do you think you could cope with pushing your pants down a little for me, Sam?" he asked.

Sam hesitated. It was kind of an automatic thing - the way his gaze fell to the front of Dean's joggers, noticing the damp patch that was forming there, but Dean saw the gesture and drew implications from it.

"Hey, I'm not trying to get you out of them, Sam. I swear to God. Just want to get to your lower back muscles; you carry a lot of tension there. I'm talking a couple of inches." He held his thumb and forefinger in the air. "Yea much."

'Yea much', it turned out, made a _lot_ of difference. Dean wasn't kidding about the tension there. The muscles were as taut as drum skins and when Dean started pressing circles into them

"Oh God! Oh fuck! OhGg_gguurhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhrrrr rrrrrrrrrrrrrr_!"

as the heel of Dean's hand pushed firm and deep out to the edge of Sam's hip, then continued – circle, circle, push; circle, circle push – while Sam lay with his eyes screwed shut, his fingers clamping and flexing over the top the pillow, feet arched back and toes digging into the bed. In the moments of respite Dean gave him his body just kind of collapsed into the bed, limp and inert, except for his hips. They were rocking into the mattress, completely of their own volition – Sam had nothing to do with it – and sending exquisite thrills of pleasure through the quivering length of his dick. Oh, he should stop now . . . they should . . . he should tell Dean to stop . . .

"You O.K, Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam panted. "I'm fine. I'm good." _Don't stop._

Dean cleared his throat. "O.K. . . ." he breathed, and went through the process again the other side. And then he had to stop because he couldn't fricking see straight. He shoved his hand down his pants and flicked himself so fricking hard it made his eyes water and it still barely took the edge of his erection. Just seeing Sam like this – Mr. Rock Steady, Mr. To-do-list, Mr. Folds-his-fricking-socks-for-God's-sake – gasping and sweating and trembling and making sounds that were going straight to Dean's balls . . . He sucked in a deep breath, held it for several seconds and placed his hand flat on the small of Sam's back. "Sshh," he said. "Sshh . . . shush-sssshhhh . . . sshhusshh." He wasn't sure if he was talking to Sam or himself, but after maybe half a minute Sam had settled a little, stopped panting, stopped humping . . . mostly.

Dean knew he couldn't push it much further. Sam was getting too worked up. Wasn't fair. On either of them. It was late, anyhow. Time he started wrapping this up. Just . . . just a couple more things he wanted to do first . . . wanted to show Sam . . . He ran his hands up the length of Sam's back, savoring the feel of the smooth firm flesh beneath his palms – just one of the memories he was going to carry to the bathroom with him – and he paused at the top of Sam's neck.

"This is gonna tingle, Sam," he said. "I think you'll like it. If you don't . . . well, you know the drill." He pressed his fingers and thumb into the flesh either side of Sam's spine, slid them down to the crook of his neck then fanned them out across the tops of his shoulders.

Sam mewled like a cat, his back arched like a cat's, his feet lifted off the bed and then his shins slammed back down onto the mattress. He'd been expecting shivers, like the last time Dean had massaged his neck. This was more like an electric current rolling down both sides of his spine.

"You O.K, Sam?"

"Do it again," Sam gasped. _Do it again. Do it again!_

A couple more times and Sam was simply fucking the mattress.

"O.K." Dean breathed. A note of finality in his voice.

_Oh no! Don't stop!_

"O.K," he said again, placing a steadying hand between Sam's shoulder blades, and he was quietly shushing Sam again. He placed his other hand on the small of Sam's back and pressed down. It turned Sam on but it was kind of soothing at the same time, and it stilled the involuntary motions of his hips.

Dean rose up on his knees and placed a little weight on his hands. "I'm not real sure about this, Sam," he admitted. "This is usually relaxing, but you're a bit different . . . If you start to feel claustrophobic or anything, let me know." Very slowly, he began to lean his weight into his hands, and Sam felt himself being pressed into the bed.

Maybe it should have felt claustrophobic, but somehow it didn't. There was maybe half a heartbeat of alarm when Sam thought he was going to feel trapped, but as the pressure increased he felt oddly calm instead; safe, protected, grounded . . . and profoundly turned on. He vented a long, low growl that was simultaneously arousal and relief. Dean held him down for a slow count of ten or so then started to release the pressure, and when he took his hands away Sam felt like he was floating. He basked in that feeling for a little while then turned and gazed at Dean. He had a feeling that was like . . . Dean's massage finale or something.

Sam just lay there staring at Dean, eyes all bright and shining, rich mahogany brown glazed with blue. And he was glowing. Even the air around him seemed to shimmer. Swear . . . swear to God, it was the face of a fucking angel. Dean swallowed on a lump that was forming in his throat as he looked at him. _You are beautiful, Sam. Just for the record. You are._

Show was over, though. Dean knew that. Only one other place it could go from here, way they were both feeling, and Sam had made it pretty clear up front he didn't want to go there. So, time for Dean to show he could stick to the rules: time for them to pay their respective visits to the bathroom and retire to their separate beds.

_Crap._

Dean picked at a loose thread on the bedspread. He looked suddenly sad.

"Dean?"

He raised eyes that were big and dark, and kind of lost looking. "Goodnight kiss?" he asked, with a shrug and a slight tip of the head that seemed to anticipate the answer 'no'.

Sam hesitated. He wanted it, had done since . . . maybe since before he'd even met Dean. . . but he sensed that a kiss was something different, more intimate, than a massage - even one of Dean's massages. It was saying something that Sam wouldn't be able to take back afterward, something that could be held against him in a court of recriminations.

Dean shook his head and breathed a small, soft laugh. "No. O.K," he said, and made to stand, but Sam quickly sat up and clutched at his wrist.

"No! Dean!" And he was right there, right in Dean's face, staring straight into the deep, forest dark eyes. Their mouths were scant inches apart and Sam's lips hummed with expectation and craving.

Dean's eyes widened and his lips parted on a tiny gasp. "Are you sure, Sam?" he croaked.

Sam leaned closer, slipped one hand round the back of Dean's neck while his other hand rested on Dean's chest. A gust of breath pushed through his parted lips as he felt the strong rapid beat of Dean's heart pulse through his finger tips. "Kiss me, Dean," Sam growled, and he waited, wanted to wait, but he couldn't wait much longer. _Kiss me, Dean, or I'll kiss you first._

They drifted even closer until their foreheads were almost touching, and Dean's hands slid up Sam's arms and over his shoulders until they cradled Sam's head. Then he confused Sam by missing his mouth altogether and planting his lips by the side of Sam's nose instead. They rested there for a moment, soft against Sam's skin then meandered down to Sam's lips, paused at the corner of his mouth. Sam tried to close in but Dean's hands held him still while his lips whispered across Sam's, pecked with soft promise at each lip in turn then lingered over Sam's mouth until the whole of his body was aching and buzzing and focused on the wait and the longing. Then Dean's lips melted into Sam's, soft and rich as cream, and moved against Sam's mouth in a slow sensual roll.

Excitement swam through Sam's head, washed over his flesh, and rippled through his insides. Instinctively he plunged his tongue into Dean's mouth, but it was instantly withdrawn leaving Sam breathless and panting. "Dean . . ." he gasped. "D –"

Dean's eyes held his for a moment while he pressed a hushing thumb to Sam's lips, and then his mouth was there again, hovering. Lesson learned. Sam stilled his hungry impatience, closed his eyes and waited . . . for Dean to show him. Breath warmed his lips and the moist tip of Dean's tongue danced over them. Sam's head rocked back, his mouth opened wider and a little pleading sound escaped from it. Dean's lips closed warm against his once more and his tongue slipped into Sam's mouth, brushed the tip of Sam's tongue.

There was a deep thrill of response inside Sam and his hips rocked upward, almost as if there was a thread between his mouth and his dick that Dean was tugging gently as he lapped at the tip and sides of Sam's tongue, the roof of his mouth, his cheeks, behind his teeth. Then his tongue slipped under Sam's and curled up, beckoning, inviting Sam into his mouth. Sam groaned, low and deep as his tongue slid between Dean's lips, and Dean's mouth embraced him, molding their tongues together in a slow, sensual dance. Sam's arm snaked around Dean's waist drawing him close and tight until he could feel the rise and fall of Dean's chest against his and the thump of Dean's heart beating through his own bones, and he sensed he was falling slowly backwards until they sank into the pillow still locked together.

Dean wasn't going to say he shouldn't have started this. Couldn't. But the problem was he wasn't going to be able to stop. Like,_ ever_. He was going to spend the rest of his life kissing Sam. That's all he wanted, swear to God – raging fire in his pants be damned – but he wanted it _forever_: the smell, the sound, the taste; he wanted to breathe and drink Sam. But from the moment he felt Sam's great paw fold around his head and the strength of the man's arm around him Dean knew he wasn't entirely in control of the situation any longer. Sam wasn't the wild unyoked thing he'd been the other night but Dean's breath caught in his chest when he felt the powerful human engine throbbing beneath him. Nervous and excited by it, by the ripple of his muscles, the distinct scent of testosterone in his sweat, and the low deep rumble of his voice as he moaned into Dean's mouth. Dean could feel Sam's body writhing, undulating beneath him, his hips rocking fucking motions into the air. They needed to stop. But Dean couldn't. Couldn't do it. Didn't know how.

Sam was lost in the sinuous slide of Dean's tongue. The feel of that alone was sensational, but it spawned thoughts of other pleasures, awoke sympathetic thrills throughout his body – in his shoulders, low in his back, deep in his abdomen, in his thighs . . . and the ever more demanding flesh throbbing between them. His hands started to wander, running aimless and unguided over Dean's back and hips with no object but to feel, and he felt Dean's skin reacting to his touch, moving and shivering beneath it. Sam groaned and shuddered. His whole body was alive with tingling desire and his dick ached, _ached_ for attention, wanted touch, Dean's touch_._ His hand ran up Dean's arm, closed over his wrist and guided it down to where it was needed.

Dean felt the pull, tried to resist it, trying desperately to regain control of the situation and himself. "Y-you didn't want to go that far – " he tried to remind Sam.

Sam pulled Dean toward him and pushed his hips forward in silent entreaty. "I want it _now_," he insisted. "Want your hand, Dean. _Want it_. _Please_!"

Dean shivered and his breath came out of him in a rush. His own dick was leaping and quivering as he allowed Sam to clasp his wrist once more and draw it back to the front of his joggers, felt Sam hot and hard beneath his hand, felt him thrust up into his palm – and the feral sound that came out of Sam's throat made every nerve in his body stand up and pay attention. As Sam continued to hump urgently under Dean's hand Dean allowed his fingers to close around the taut shaft and moved along it in one long, firm sweep. Sam fell back onto the bed, arched his hips into the stroke and vented a cry that drove another quivering breath from Dean's lungs and sent a shock of gooseflesh over his shoulders.

Sam's hands dropped to his joggers and pushed at the waistband. "Dean, take them off," he gasped. "Take them off, please."

Dean closed his eyes and swallowed. "Against the rules." His voice came out in a trembling rasp.

"_My _rule," Sam said, pointedly.

Dean cleared his throat. "Yeah, well you made it," he insisted, but his voice was a whisper that lacked conviction.

"Dean, _please!_" Sam's hands closed around Dean's neck. He twisted his head, wrested it from Sam's grasp, but then he just stared at Sam, eyes dark and heavy lidded. For long moments they stared into each other, sharing understanding and each other's breath. Both knew there was only one way this could end.

Dean shifted Sam's hands to his shoulders, reached out and pulled him up, pulled him close, pressed their foreheads together. Sam could feel him trembling under his palms, and see his dick straining against the soggy fabric of his pants. Dean rested his hands on Sam's hips then his fingers slipped under the waistband of the joggers. Sam gasped, a breathy hiss, as he felt Dean's fingertips brush the skin round his hip bone, and his dick leapt with anticipation. A cool draught of air met the hot flesh as Dean began to ease the pants down and Sam let out a low eager moan. His own hands dropped to Dean's joggers but Dean caught them in his and replaced them on his shoulders.

"Not yet," he breathed.

His hands slipped inside Sam's pants and his thumbs hooked over the waistband. Sam could feel the warmth of Dean's palms on his lower back, and then they slid down over Sam's buttocks taking the joggers down with them until they were resting half way down his thighs. Sam moaned with excitement as his dick swung free and hung leaping and twitching in the air as Dean reached for the bottle of oil. His breath was coming out in thick fast pants as he watched Dean flip the cap and pour oil into his hand, work it between his palms. Then he dropped the bottle and as he reached for Sam his eyelashes lifted and his eyes held Sam in their smoldering gaze for a handful of pounding heartbeats. A deep, hungry growl rose in Sam's throat and then he felt Dean's fingers brush against his shaft, the knuckles barely grazing the flesh.

"_Jesus_, Dean!" he gasped then "OH GOD! _F_ – " and the rest was buried in an ululating howl as Dean's fingers closed firmly around him and slid smoothly up the quivering length, sweeping a stunning burst of pleasure in their wake. He clung helplessly to Dean's shoulders, barely able to support his own shuddering weight on his knees. _Oh fuck – I'm gonna lose it – I'm gonna – _but then Dean's grip tightened, squeezed.

"Ssh-ssh-ssh. Deep breath, Sam," he whispered, and he pressed his other fingers to Sam's lips. "Breathe."

Sam struggled to master his breathing while Dean's fingers remained tightly coiled around him. It wasn't an altogether comfortable sensation but it soothed the frantic ache, gave Sam back a sense of control. Presently Dean relaxed his grip but his hand remained loosely curled around Sam's shaft, warm and tempting. Sam instinctively thrust into it, but Dean stilled him with an admonitory finger on his chest and a slight shake of the head.

"Now . . ." Dean cleared his throat. "Think you could do the same for me?"

He fixed Sam with his searching gaze and when Sam nodded eagerly he pushed down his own pants and picked up the bottle again. While Sam stared at the taut rod that sprung free of the joggers, at the glistening head and the sticky-wet film that coated most of the shaft, Dean took Sam's hand in his, poured an oily puddle into the centre and laid his other hand over it. Holding Sam's gaze once more he worked his hand in a slow, sensuous circle spreading the oil between their warm palms.

"Mmm_uurrrh_!" Sam gasped.

Dean's finger was on his lips again. His other hand was guiding Sam's down, and then he was hot and slick in Sam's palm, leaping between his curled fingers.

He tried to do it the way Dean had, slow and smooth, and he watched with rapt fascination and excitement as Dean's head rocked back, his eyes fluttered closed then screwed tight shut. His moan of pleasure sent sympathetic thrills through Sam's body, made his toes curl. He was tempted to just keep going, make Dean moan some more, but instead he copied what Dean had shown him, tightened his grip, squeezed. _Man_, Dean was hard, every fucking inch solid as oak, and Sam could feel the pounding throb of his pulse beating through his fingertips.

Dean scraped his teeth over his lower lip and sucked it in. "Harder," he whispered, and winced a little when Sam complied. Then he raised his head, opened his eyes, and his fingers searched for and found Sam again.

"_Uuhurhhr . . ._" Sam shivered.

"Ssh. Just follow my lead, Sam," he murmured, slipping his other hand round Sam's neck and resting their foreheads together. "Nice and slow."

"_Jesus, Dean_ – !" Sam gasped then groaned then cried out as Dean's hand moved up Sam's length in a tantalizingly slow stroke that ended with his thumb circling over the leaking dome.

"Ssh, Sam, ssh-ssh" Dean breathed and his shaft quivered in Sam's hand and, for the first time, it dawned on Sam that Dean's shushing wasn't just to keep Sam calm; his cries were doing something to Dean. He allowed another low moan to pass his lips, smiled as he felt the thrill of Dean's response, then he moaned again in earnest as another stroke of Dean's hand sent electric tendrils of pleasure coursing through his own flesh.

At first Dean just kept repeating that same firm, even stroke: steady, consistent, reassuringly predictable, deliciously pleasurable . . . maddeningly, achingly slow. Sam tried to reciprocate, copying his motion, matching his pace, but he got impatient, found himself going faster, maybe unconsciously trying to encourage Dean to do the same. It didn't work. Every time it happened Dean would just stop, hold his hand over Sam's and slow him right back down again. Swearing at him made no difference. Groaning and whimpering made him quiver but it didn't alter the pace. But gradually Dean began to vary the rhythm, throw in a couple of quick strokes when Sam wasn't expecting it, sending nameless thrills shooting through his groin, then back to slow, or he'd add an extra sweep or two of his thumb. Sometimes he'd draw all of his fingers over the head, or he'd slide his hand down to cradle Sam's balls, and then he'd go back to slow and steady again leaving Sam dizzy with pleasure and longing. And Sam was trying to do what Dean said, follow his lead, but it was getting hard to keep up because half the time he didn't know what Dean was going to do next, and half the time he wasn't even sure what his own hand was doing until Dean caught hold of it and held it still. And then Dean started kneading and cork-screwing up and down the length of Sam's shaft and Sam didn't know what fucking day of the week it was. Little lights were going off pop behind his eyes and his body was shuddering, writhing to the rhythm of Dean's hand and he was ready, so ready, to come but Dean knew, every time he got close Dean _knew_ and his hand would still, his grip would tighten and the feeling would ebb until Dean's fingers beckoned it on once more. And he played Sam like that, like a fucking musical instrument, keeping him rolling backwards and forwards toward the brink of orgasm until Sam was mewling and whining and begging, fucking begging "please, Dean, fucking _please, I want to come, Dean, PLEASE!_"

There was power in that pleading. Sam could feel it in the long, shuddering spasm that pulsed through Dean's hard flesh and into Sam's fingers, heard it in the needy groan that escaped from Dean's lips. The hand on Sam's neck shifted; Dean's fingers snaked into Sam's hair and cupped his head. His face turned and his lips found Sam's; his tongue delved into Sam's mouth with deep, hungry thrusts. And the rhythm of his hand changed – not too fast, still controlled, but purposeful. And Sam fell into that rhythm, moved with it, breathed with it, breathing into Dean, feeling Dean's heart beating into him. The world fell away. The room around them faded, even the bed beneath them, and there was only Dean, the feel of his flesh beneath Sam's fingers, his taste in Sam's mouth, his smell in Sam's breath and his heart beating in Sam's chest.

And then it began. As a tingling sensation in his toes, in his fingers, that rolled up his legs and arms, chased over his thighs, buttocks and shoulders; as a stretching, yawning awakening of nerve endings all over his body. And then a quiver, low in his abdomen, a heave of his balls, a deep pounding throb and then an aching, twisting, shuddering spasm of ecstasy, and another, and another as a hot rush uncoiled from the base of his back and rose up his spine, shivered through his hair and over his scalp, and burst bright and dizzying in his head, in his mind. And through it all the convulsive beat in his hand, and the hot pulsing flood over his fingers, the breath, the heartbeat, and a sound, a voice, one long low quavering note, deep primal and ephemeral.


	14. Final

It was the heartbeat he was first aware of, when he became conscious of anything, of himself – as something separate from Dean, from the rest of the room, from the world around them. It was like awakening from a dream, one he'd had many times before but not for years. He couldn't remember it, couldn't describe it, but for as long as it lasted – the space between one heartbeat and the next – he knew it was real, it was safe . . . and it was forever.

They were still wound together, in each other's arms, hands, the last tremors of orgasm still thrilling through Sam's body, the occasional pulse of Dean's flesh in his palm. They were still kissing softly, languidly, semi-consciously, but the moment of seemingly perfect . . . synchronicity? . . . was passing. Sam could feel two separate rhythms now, and while his own heart was slowing Dean's was still thumping rapidly, and he was holding Sam a little too tightly. Sam drew away a little. Their mouths parted and he let his forehead rest against Dean's.

"You O.K, Dean?" he murmured, a little sleepily.

Dean's head rocked back and his eyes opened slowly. Once they'd focused he studied Sam with . . . well, it was an odd look. Sam couldn't make any more of it than that.

"That was weird," Dean said. His voice was a little wobbly. "Did you feel that?" he added, when Sam didn't respond immediately.

"Yeah." Sam nodded. "I felt something." He couldn't know it was exactly the same thing that Dean had experienced. He believed it was.

"Huh."

"It felt good," Sam ventured.

"Yeah. Yeah, it did," Dean agreed. "Just . . . a bit freaky." He was still looking at Sam really oddly.

The word jarred and Sam frowned. Dean picked up on that and added hurriedly "I mean . . . not in a bad way . . ." but it left Sam feeling uneasy.

_Dean, you took me there. Don't tell me you've never been before._

The last traces of the moment seemed to evaporate into the air, like a fading shaft of sunlight. If it hadn't happened to Dean before that meant it wasn't normal. From there it wasn't too much of a leap to wonder if it was _natural_, or whether it was just _Sam_, something to do with his . . . abilities.

Sam shifted in the tight embrace. It was starting to feel a little . . . clingy . . . and Dean's grip on Sam's hair was getting uncomfortable. He was getting cold anyway. The sweat on his body was starting to turn chill and he was wet and sticky.

"I need a shower," he said, and tried to extricate himself from Dean's arms.

"Sam – "

For a moment Dean's grip got even tighter. Sam felt a momentary irrational flare of annoyance and he tugged himself out of Dean's grasp. Dean immediately let go and moved away.

"Whoa! Sorry, Sam!" he apologized, and Sam instantly regretted his irritable gesture.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I didn't mean to . . . It's just . . ."

"I know, Sam. I get it." Dean assured him, but there was hurt in his eyes. Sam could see it. "Go take your shower."

Sam hesitated. He felt that something needed to be said, some acknowledgement. "Dean, I just wanted to . . . I mean, what you did . . . it was . . ."

Dean raised his eyebrows. There was just a hint of mocking in his expression, a hint of smug, that communicated the message that words weren't appropriate here. Even if Sam could think of an adequate superlative it would probably be redundant. Dean didn't need telling how good he was.

"Never mind."

He turned toward the bathroom, and as he entered he heard Dean call after him "it was my pleasure, Sam."

And it was, of course. And Dean tried not to take it personally that Sam was in such a hurry to wash the physical evidence away. Not like he was expecting to wave a magic wand and cure all Sam's intimacy issues in one night. Not like he'd had fantasies of them spending the night snuggled up together in one bed. All right, he _had_, but he knew that's all they were. Fantasies. That wasn't going to happen any time soon. If Sam woke up in the middle of the night and found someone in his bed Dean was likely to get a bowie in the belly before Sam remembered who he was and how he got there. But what he still had of Sam, Dean was taking to bed with him tonight. He raised his hand to his face and breathed in the scent that coated his fingers, tasted it, mulled over the faint traces of salt, sweet and astringent. He'd shower in the morning. For now he just took out a towel from his duffel and wiped himself down.

Right now he needed the reassurance of the physical: Sam's taste on his tongue, his scent, the lingering odor of the clary sage and angelica root, the coarse texture of the towel against his skin, even the gathering chill of the night; the things he could see and feel and smell. These were the things, the _only_ things he'd ever thought he could believe in.

But right now he wasn't so sure, because what had just happened . . . What _had_ just happened? He hadn't wanted to make a big deal about it because Sam seemed to have taken it in stride, at least until Dean had started getting weird and heavy about it. Wouldn't make that mistake again. Maybe it hadn't been the same for Sam and if it wasn't then Dean didn't want to know because . . . well, just because. But it _was_ a big deal. For Dean. Dean felt like the Earth had shifted a little under his feet. All he knew was that for one bright, shining moment he was sure – no – he _knew_ for a fact, he wasn't alone, could never be. Yet, at the exact same time he'd had a conviction that he was _all_ there was or had ever been. He didn't know what it meant, but it had left him shaken, left him wondering if there was anything left in the world he was completely sure he believed was real . . . even himself.

He sat on the edge of the bed, beginning to shiver. He wanted to hold on to that moment of certainty, but it was slipping through his fingers fast and leaving only uneasiness in its wake. He wished he could have held Sam longer.

He needed something to distract himself with, get him out of his head, stop him dwelling on weird shit he'd probably only imagined, anyway, when he was on some whacky post-orgasmic high. The problem was, it was too damn quiet. The laptop had long since worked its way through the touch therapy playlist and the only sounds Dean could hear above his own breathing were the tick of the clock and the muted drum of the shower from the next room. He punched on the radio and AC/DC's "Hell's Bells" assaulted the air. And if that wasn't enough to banish any lingering thoughts of transcendental mumbo-jumbo . . . well, it was doing its best.

Dean retrieved his joggers and a t-shirt, then he dug out a sweat top and damned if he wasn't going to need some socks as well, the temperature was dropping so fast. The amulet got all caught up in the sweat when he put it on and as he straightened out the cord he gripped the carving in his hand for a few moments, feeling its reassuring hardness: solid, warm now . . . in spite of the dropping room temperature. Dean thought about that evening in the orchard with Gemma, about the moment just before Sam turned up when the amulet had seemed to burn hot. He surely needed to ask Sam some more questions about where he'd got the thing and what it was supposed to do. It didn't obey the laws of physics, that's for sure.

Dean was about to shut down the laptop but thoughts of Gemma revived his curiosity about the woman. It had occurred to him, belatedly, that he'd taken an awful lot of what she'd told him about herself on trust. At the time there'd seemed no reason not to, but now that he had a spare few minutes and a search engine . . .

Sam emerged from the bathroom, teeth chattering, and proceeded to bundle himself into as many layers as Dean had.

"Got cold all of a sudden, didn't it?" Dean remarked.

Sam frowned when he noticed Dean was sitting at the laptop. "What are you doing?"

A smile twitched the corners of Dean's lips when he heard the slightly accusing tone. Sam had bought Dean's smokescreen that he used the laptop primarily to surf porn.

"Research, Sam," Dean assured him. "Sort of. I'm trying to find out a little more about our friend Ms. Parker."

"What for?"

Dean looked up with slightly raised eyebrows. Sam's tone was hardly mollified.

"I dunno, Sam. I've just got this . . ." He jabbed a finger at the back of his neck. "Spidey sense or something. She was mighty magnanimous and forgiving about her brother's murderers, don't you think?"

Sam frowned and took a seat next to Dean. "You agreed with her," he pointed out.

"Yeah, well, I wasn't ready to be judge, jury and executioner and I wasn't going to encourage her to go Terminator on their asses, but it doesn't mean I'm all forgive and forget, either. And it was just weird the way she was so fired up to gank the scarecrow, but when it came to the townspeople she just shrugged and jumped on a bus. You saw what happened to her brother, Sam. If they'd done that to my brother or anyone I cared about – "

"I'd have killed every last one of them."

Dean stared at Sam, lips parted on the unfinished sentence. It wasn't so much what Sam had said as the way he said it, so fast and blunt. Like he'd given the matter some thought already.

"Easy, Sam," Dean murmured.

Sam didn't reply, just stared straight ahead and jerked his chin to the side.

"Anyway," Dean continued, trying to move past the uncomfortable exchange, "Google's kindly given me 45,100 results for 'Gemma Parker' so I'm just trying to narrow the parameters a bit." Dean allowed his thighs to fall open until one knee rested against Sam's. Sam twitched a little but didn't move his leg, and presently he rested his own hand on the table next to where Dean held the mouse, close enough that their fingers touched. Dean smiled inwardly. Call that a win. _Baby steps_.

Dean entered 'Gemma Parker' and 'Vince Parker'. "O.K. 25 results. That's more like it." Then the lights blinked. The laptop beeped twice as the power dropped out then came on again, and the radio hissed for several moments. When it came back it had moved on to the next song and Dean recognized Paul Rodgers' haunting tones:

_ "Company. Always on the run._

_ Destiny is the rising sun."_

Sam frowned and glanced at Dean then he stood up and moved to the window, double checked the salt lines and peered cautiously through the drapes.

"Sam?" Dean prompted, uneasily.

"Maybe nothing," he replied cautiously. "Sometimes a power surge is just a power surge."

"It did that last night, too," Dean remembered. "I thought it was the storm over Burkitsville causing it."

"Maybe," Sam replied absently, but then he turned sharply and stared hard at Dean. "And your cell phone died at the same time?" he demanded.

"Well . . . it died. I don't know exactly when . . ." but Dean could feel the chill in the air seeping into his gut as he started putting it all together: power surges, temperature fluctuations, cell dying. Three times is enemy action

Sam picked up his jacket, moved to the nightstand and slipped the holy water into his pocket. "Get dressed, Dean," he said, already pulling on his boots.

Dean jumped to his feet and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, but as he struggled into it his attention was caught by one of the results of his search. He reached over and clicked on it. There was her picture. Familiar face. Impossible caption.

"Dean!"

Yeah. Yeah, he knew. Now wasn't the moment. But somehow he couldn't look away from the utterly bizarre text. He didn't know what he'd expected to find on Gemma, but an obituary wasn't it.

"She drowned!" he gasped. He turned the laptop to show Sam. "She was on a fishing boat in a storm off Delaware, and she was washed overboard. Two years ago!"

Even Sam was fascinated now. He moved over and rapidly scanned the text. "They never found the body," he mused.

"What the hell, Sam? I was with her for two days. She couldn't have been a spirit . . . she . . .?" Dean hesitated, uncertain.

"No. She was corporeal," Sam assured him.

"Then what . . . who _was_ she?"

Sam's only answer was a pointed stare, but Paul Rodgers' voice hissed from the radio:

"_Bad company. And I can't deny . . ._

_Bad, bad company til the day I die._

_Til the day I die."_

Across the road, Meg watched the motel from the darkness of a copse of trees.

"It makes no sense. I could've stopped Sam. Hell, we could've taken them both. Why let them go?"

Her sister stepped out from the shadow of the largest tree. She wore Gemma Parker's meat suit, as she had for the past two years, but the homely weeds donned for the character she'd been playing the last two days were now discarded. Instead she was wearing her more favored leather and denim, and her blonde mane cascaded loose over her shoulders. Ever the consummate role-player, possessing subtlety and patience she'd learned over centuries, she played the long game. She made her younger sister look and feel like a novice.

"Our father doesn't want them stopped. He has plans for them." She moved to Meg's side and the two demons continued to survey the motel, together. "We've done everything we were told to do." Her green eyes flashed when she received no response and she added sharply, "d'you hear me?"

Meg's mouth twisted into its characteristic sulk. "Yes, Ruby," she replied.


	15. Still to Come and Closing Credits

_**Author's notes: Apologies for the delay in posting these last two chapters. RL demands have kept me away from the quest. I hope it didn't spoil your enjoyment of the conclusion too much. Also I'm going on holiday shortly for a week, and I apologize if I don't get a chance to respond to everyone's reviews before I leave. Be assured that all feedback is eagerly received and appreciated.**_

_**NB If anyone would like me to provide them with a list of the clues in this episode that pointed toward Gemma's true identity, let me know :)**_

**STILL TO COME **

Thank you for reading _Together_, episode 4 in the series THE SONG REMAINS THE SAME. Other episodes in this series include the double pilot episode, _I Can Never Go Home, _episode 2, _Golem _and episode 3, _Prank'd._ If you have not already done so, and would like to continue following the story, please favourite/author alert me (fanspired) to receive an alert from the site when the next episode is posted.

COMING SOON:

**EPISODE 5: SOMETHING WICKED?**

Sam and Dean try to adjust to the changes in their relationship, and they receive information about the demon from an unexpected source. Meanwhile, a young boy has an imaginary friend who knows too much. When Sam and Dean investigate, Dean is haunted by memories of the little brother he never had.

**CLOSING CREDITS**

For the benefit of those readers who enjoy spotting my allusions to other fandoms etc.

Prologue

"I believe life is like a story – like the great stories that are told over and over again, and everyone tells them a different way, but some parts are fixed. The hero always meets the temptress; partnerships are always tested; the big choices are made. That's destiny."

Refers to the classic formula for a quest myth, used many times and formally identified in Joseph Campbell's "The Hero has a Thousand Faces". The show's creators have acknowledged the influence of this work on the show's structure.

Scene 1

"_Superman_ had flown two quick circuits of the world before running down and dispatching fleeing Pa, pausing en route to rescue Dean from the clutches of Ghoul Jr."

Alludes to the original Christopher Reeves movie where Superman turned back time by flying at super speed round the Earth in order to save Lois Lane.

Scene 3

"someone had done a major Obi Wan Kenobe number on the dude . . . before somebody decided Dean was the droid they were looking for after all."

I'm sure there's nobody in the Universe who hasn't seen _Star Wars_ so . . . Oh, hi! Sam! Yeah, that was an allusion to _Star Wars, _Sweetie.

Scene 4

"He'd just swooped in, faster than a speeding bullet, and flown Dean away from the burning building."

Yeah, another Superman reference :)

Scene 5

"It reminded him of _Friday the 13th_, or _Halloween,_ or even _Frankenstein."_

The choice of films isn't at all influenced by Jared's appearance in the recent remake of _Friday the 13__th_

Scene 8

"The professor was a pleasant seeming old gentleman. He had a rumpled, unmade bed look about him and a chesty cough, legacy of a three pack a day habit that he must have kicked at some point since Dean couldn't smell the smoke on him any more."

In the original episode, "Scarecrow", the professor was played by William B. Davis, well known for his role of "Cigarette Smoking Man" in _The X Files_.

"Something too much of this."

From Hamlet's speech to Horatio, Act III Sc,2

Scene 9

"Kept preaching about responsibility, and the greater good, and quoting lines from _Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan" _

In Spock's beautiful death scene (yeah, right) in _Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan _he sacrifices himself to save the ship, explaining that the good of the many outweighs the good of the one – a sentiment repeated and abused by Ma Jorgeson in "Scarecrow"

Scene 10

"The days are gone when a guy could walk into a bar and get a job by singing a couple of bars of 'You Are My Sunshine'."

That's what Neil Diamond did in the movie "The Jazz Singer".

"How else _would _I see it? I'm like the _Perils of Penelope Pitstop_, always tied to the freaking railway lines, and you're Peter fricking Perfect always having to swoop in and rescue me. How do _you_ see it?"

Penelope Pitstop and Peter Perfect were cartoon characters in _The Perils of Penelope Pitstop, _a spin off from _The Whacky Races._

Scene 11

_Batman Forever _starring Val Kilmer and Chris O'Donnell was the movie in which Bruce Wayne (aka Batman) took Dick Grayson (aka Robin) under his wing after Two Face killed his family. Some would argue that the next movie, _Batman and Robin_ was even worse, but it wasn't as relevant :P

Scene 12

Dean's choice of "Fumbling Toward Ecstasy" for his playlist is my tribute to Maichan2's youtube fanvid of the same name. IMHO the best Wincest fanvid of all time.

Final

I'm sure even Sam got the _Terminator _and_ Spiderman _references.

"Three times is enemy action" alludes to Ian Fleming's _Goldfinger_: "Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times, it's enemy action."

**MUSIC CREDITS**

Scene 1

"All I Wanna Do" performed by Sheryl Crow.

Scene 2

"U + Ur Hand" performed by P!nk

"The Key" written by Dean Winchester.

Scene 4

"Wasted Time" performed by The Eagles

Scene 8

"Without a Map" performed by Sam Roberts

Scene 12

"Fumbling Toward Ecstasy" performed by Sarah McLachlan

Final

"Hell's Bells" performed by AC/DC

"Bad Company" performed by Bad Company


	16. A Preview of Episode 5

**The following is a preview of Episode 5. The story continues in a separately posted story entitled "Something Wicked?"  
**

***** A SPECIAL APOLOGY TO MY REGULAR READERS *****

I'm so sorry for the great gap in time that has passed since I last posted an update to this series. I'd like to assure you that this has not been due to any loss of enthusiasm on my part for the story or the project, but to a specific work commitment that has prevented me from devoting my attention to my writing. That commitment has now been dispatched and normal service will be resumed from now on. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your patience, your loyalty, and your continuing support.

**.**

**EPISODE 5: SOMETHING WICKED?**

**THE ROAD SO FAR:**

_After leading a hunting raid that leads to the death of his cousin, Sam Campbell is estranged from his hunter family and tries to escape the life. He attempts to start afresh in a new town and is employed by John Winchester, but a death vision of John's wife and son under horribly familiar circumstances draws him back into the world of the supernatural. When the yellow eyed demon possesses John and murders Amanda, Sam rescues their son Dean and teaches him about hunting. Dean abandons his old life as a college student and would be musician and, together, he and Sam embark on a quest to find and rescue John, and avenge the deaths of their mothers. _

_In the wake of an explosive quarrel the friends are re-examining the nature of their relationship. Dean is coaxing Sam to address his intimacy issues, but Sam still has doubts and he is concealing secrets about his past and about his psychic abilities. Meanwhile the demons Meg and Ruby have appeared in disguise to Sam and Dean, and Dean has received help from a mysterious blue-eyed stranger._

_**Prologue**_

_**Lichtburg, Wisconsin.**_

He couldn't even say what it was about the boy that fascinated him so much. He wasn't a particularly exceptional or attractive child. He was much like any of the other neighbourhood kids, small for his age perhaps, with dirty blond hair and pudgy cheeks and eyes that were somehow too big for his face, and there was something ungainly about the way he walked as he followed after the girl. He was always with that girl. That meant there were fewer opportunities to get him by himself, of course, but it stirred a kind of resentment for other reasons. There was something about the way the boy looked at her, like the sun shone for her, that was both compelling and discomfiting . . . because it was something that was beyond _his_ experience . . . Maybe that had something to do with it.

Of course they were all memorable, in their way, but Donald Helfer especially so, because he was the first. First times are always special.

Suzy had a big empty biscuit tin she'd saved from Christmas. She bought a post card and wrote a message to the future, and for good measure she put a stamp on it. And she added the whole of the rest of her pocket money for that week: twenty three cents. There was a picture of her favourite pop group, too. Donald was a little jealous of those brothers because Suzy went on and on about them, but he didn't really mind because he knew they lived hundreds of miles away, in Utah, and he lived right next door to Suzy.

She was too old for him, he knew that – because he was only nine and a half, and she was nearly eleven – but Donald thought she was the prettiest girl he'd even seen. She had hair the colour of caramel fudge, and it flowed down the sides of her face in waves and ringlets and smelled of apples; and her eyes were the brightest, clearest blue – the colour of his favourite marble. And she was his best friend in the whole wide world. She didn't tease him because he was short and awkward and a bit bandy. She didn't mind that he had freckles. And he didn't mind too much that she called him Donny.

Donny put his marbles in the tin along with one of his old comics, and they both cut off a piece of their hair and put that in as well. Then they spent the rest of the afternoon taping songs from the radio onto a C60 with the cassette recorder Suzy'd been given for her birthday. Afterward Suzy went to fetch that day's newspaper: Thursday April 29th 1976.

While she was out of the room Donny rewound the tape a little way. He leaned real close to the microphone and whispered "Suzy Wayte, I'll love you forever and ever," then he hastily took out the cassette, slipped it into its case and dropped it into the tin. He was startled and a little alarmed when Suzy returned and took it out again, but she was just wrapping everything in the newspaper, and then she carefully covered the paper in Saran Wrap before placing it in the tin.

Donny dug the hole – under the tree in his back yard. It was hard work and it made him sweat, and the shovel gave him blisters but he didn't tell Suzy that. After they'd put the tin in the bottom they pushed the cool, damp earth back into the hole, patted it down with their hands and covered it over with grass clippings. They promised each other that this would always be their special secret, and they would come back to this spot on the same day in thirty years and retrieve their time capsule together. They sealed it with a pinkie swear.

Donald Helfer was nine and a half years old when he was murdered on Friday April 30th 1976.

**The story continues in a separately posted story entitled "Something Wicked?"**

.


End file.
